UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SAN  DIEGO 


3  1822019442466 


• 


• 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CAl" 

SAN  D 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SAN  DIEGO 


3  1822019442466 


Central  University  Library 

University  of  California,  San  Diego 
Please  Note:  This  item  is  subject  to  recall. 

Date  Due 


ts 

UtL  <-  1    133'* 

JAN  0  9  1995 

Cl  39  (7/93)                                                                    UCSDLto. 

!' 


ITALIAN   DAYS 
AND  WAYS 


By   Anne   Hollingsworth    Wharton 

ITALIAN  DAYS  AND  WAYS.  Decorated  title 
and  8  illustrations.  Crown,  8vo.  Cloth, 
extra,  $1.50  net. 

SOCIAL  LIFE  IN  THK  EARLY  REPUBLIC. 
Profusely  illustrated.  8vo.  Buckram,  gilt 
top,  uncut  edges,  $31x3  net;  half  levant, 

£6.00  net. 

SALONS,  COLONIAL  AND  REPUBLICAN.  Pro- 
fusely illustrated.  8vo.  Buckram,  $3.00; 
three-quarters  levant,  $6.00. 

HEIRLOOMS  IN  MINIATURES.  Profusely  il- 
lustrated. 8vo.  Buckram,  $3.00;  three- 
quarters  levant,  $6.00. 

THROUGH  COLONIAL  DOORWAYS.  Illus- 
trated. 121110.  Cloth.  #1.25. 

COLONIAL  DAYS  AND  DAMES.  Illustrated, 
ismo.  Cloth,  $1.25. 

A  LAST  CENTURY  MAID.  Illustrated.  410. 
Cloth,  $1.25. 


"V" 


© 


© 


ITALIAN  DAYS 
AND  WAYS 


f 


Q£> 


ANNE  HOLLINGSWORTH  WHARTON 


With   Illustrations 


^^-.-^L-U^^^gj^ 


PHILADELPHIA  AND  LONDON 

J.    B.    LIPPINCOTT    COMPANY 

MDCCCCVI 


<s,p 


Copyright,  1906 
By  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 


Published,  Novembe 


CONTENTS 


J  PAGE 

LA   8UPERBA    IN   THE   CLOUDS 9 

II 
ALONG   THE   RIVIERA 27 

III 
CAPTURED    BY   A    CABMAN 39 

IV 
AN   EXCITING   DRIVE 53 

V 

BELLA    ROMA 76 

VI 

A  POET'S  CORNER 93 

VII 

ANTIQUITIES  AND   ORANGE-BLOSSOMS 102 

VIII 

VIA   APPIA 116 

IX 

TU   ES   PETRUS 129 

X 

VALE   ROMA 145 

XI 
SHORT  JOURNEYS 158 

XII 

AN    UMBRIAN    IDYI 173 

XIII 
A  SUNDAY   IN  ASSISI 192 

XIV 

THE   CITY    OK   FLOWERS 211 

XV 

AN   EARTHLY    PARADISE 232 

XVI 
FIESOLE 253 

XVII 

HAPS  AND   HAPPENINGS 272 

XVIII 

ANGELA'S  LETTER 295 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

CASTELLO  BANT*  ANGELO Frontispiece 

THE  BAY  OP  NAPLES.     Photographed  by  Dr.  Bertha  Lewis 41 

ON  THE  ROAD  TO  PAESTOI.     Photographed  by  Dr.  Bertha  Lewis 59 

AX  AMAZOXIAX  TRIBUTE,  CAPRI.     Photographed  by  Dr.  Bertha  Lewis  71 

CYPRESS  WALK,  HADRIAN'S  VILLA 87 

A  STREET   IX   FLOREXCE 212 

THE  MICHAEL  AXGELO   WELL  AT  THE  CERTOSA,  FLORENCE  .  .  .  269 

PALAZZO  REZZONICO 277 


ITALIAN    DAYS 
AND    WAYS 


LA  SUPERBA  IN  THE  CLOUDS 


GENOA,  February  19th. 

YOUR  most  interesting  letter,  Sir  Philosopher, 
reached  me  at  Gibraltar,  and  served  to  give  me  a 
homelike  feeling  in  that  alien  land  of  Spain.  Any 
one  who  can  write  letters  as  interesting  as  yours, 
from  your  library,  with  the  mercury  at  zero  outside, 
and  nothing  more  refreshing  to  look  upon  from  the 
window  than  snow  and  sleet,  does  not  need  to  wander 
in  sunny  lands  and  among  ancient  ruins  for  an  in- 
spiration. No,  travel  would  be  absolutely  wasted 
upon  you,  who  require  only  a  cigar  and  a  wood  fire  to 
encourage  your  "  reveries  of  a  bachelor." 

You  wish  to  know  what  are  my  first  impressions  of 
Italy,  and  how  we  three  women  get  on  together?  To 
be  perfectly  candid  with  you,  we  ourselves  are  not 
wandering  in  sunny  lands  at  present,  and  the  cheerful 

9 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 


blaze  of  your  library  fire  would  prove  most  welcome 
to  benumbed  fingers  and  pinched  noses. 

Our  welcome  to  Genoa  was  not  particularly  cheer- 
ful. It  had  been  raining  for  days ;  the  sky  was  heavy 
with  clouds,  and  the  air  chilly  and  damp.  We  can 
well  understand  why  the  prudent  and  all-informing 
Baedeker  advises  invalids  visiting  Genoa  at  this  time 
to  guard  against  raw  winds  and  abrupt  changes  of 
temperature. 

We  enjoyed  coming  into  the  fine  harbor,  around 
which  Genoa  is  built  upon  its  hills  and  terraces  in  the 
form  of  a  half-circle,  the  city  widening  out  toward 
the  ends  of  the  arc.  On  the  hills,  we  know,  are  many 
beautiful  villas,  seen  to-day  but  dimly  through  veils 
of  mist,  and  beyond  are  the  mountains,  which  in 
clear  weather  must  add  much  to  the  chanm  of  this  old 
fortress  as  seen  from  the  sea. 

Zelphine  says  that  it  would  be  very  ungrateful  of 
us  if  we  were  to  complain  of  cloudy  weather,  as  the 
skies  might  be  pouring  down  upon  us  instead  of  only 
threatening,  and,  after  all,  we  are  having  the  same 
good  luck  that  we  had  in  Madeira,  Granada,  and 
Algiers  in  coming  after  the  rain  instead  of  before  it. 
And  how  do  we  get  on  together  1  Really,  monsieur, 
you  display  courage  when  you  ask  that  question,  as 
I  might  here  and  now  unburden  my  mind  of  a  long 

10 


LA  SUPERBA  IN   THE    CLOUDS 

list  of  grievances.  As  it  is,  however,  I  have  so  far 
no  woes  to  relate,  although  I  know  that  a  sojourn  on 
the  Continent  has  wrecked  many  a  friendship.  We 
three  must  appear  to  those  "who  meet  us  an  ill-assorted 
trio ;  but  because  of  our  individualities  we  may  be  the 
better  fitted  to  stand  the  crucial  test  of  a  tour  of  in- 
definite length,  whose  only  object  is  pleasure. 

Zelphine  is  the  encyclopaedia  of  the  party,  and,  as 
Angela  says,  her  information  is  always  on  tap,  besides 
which  she  is  amiable  and  refreshingly  romantic.  It 
is  inspiring  to  travel  with  a  woman,  no  longer  young, 
to  whom  the  world  and  its  inhabitants  still  wear  ' '  the 
glory  and  the  dream. ' '  On  the  other  hand,  when  one 
is  suffering  from  the  discomforts  of  travel  to  such  an 
extent  that  it  would  be  a  luxury  to  moan  and  groan  a 
bit  and  find  fault  with  the  general  condition  of  things, 
it  is  a  trifle  irritating  to  see  Zelphine  sailing  serenely 
upon  the  seas  of  high  content,  apparently  above  such 
trifling  accidents  as  material  comfort.  You,  being  a 
man  and  consequently  a  philosopher  of  greater  or 
less  degree,  may  not  be  able  to  understand  this;  it  is 
just  here  that  Zelphine  and  I  might  quarrel,  but  we 
' '  generally  most  always  ' '  do  not. 

Angela  you  have  scarcely  known  since  she  was  a 
little  girl,  when  she  was  a  prime  favorite  of  yours.  In 
the  half-hour  in  which  you  saw  her,  just  before  we 

11 


ITALIAN   DAYS    AND    WAYS 

sailed,  you  must  have  realized  that  in  appearance  she 
had  fulfilled  the  promise  of  her  beautiful  childhood. 

She  is  a  spirited  creature,  but  with  a  fine  balance  of 

^ 
common    sense,    and    with    her    delicate,    spirituelle 

beauty  is  astonishingly  practical — an  up-to-date  girl, 
in  fine.  Have  you  ever  wondered,  among  your  many 
ponderings,  why  the  girls  of  to-day,  with  the  beauty 
of  their  great-grandmothers,  should  be  utterly  devoid 
of  the  sentiment  that  enhanced  the  loveliness  of  those 
dear  ladies  as  perfume  adds  to  the  charm  of  a  flower  ? 
This  question  I  leave  with  you  for  future  solution. 

Here  in  Genoa  we  meet  the  narrow,  precipitous 
passages,  streets  by  courtesy,  which  interested  us  in 
the  Moorish  quarter  of  Algiers,  dating  back  in  both 
cases  to  remote  antiquity.  They  are  to  be  found,  we 
are  told,  in  every  old  Italian  town.  Many  of  them 
answer  to  Hawthorne's  description  of  the  streets  of 
Perugia,  which,  he  says,  are  "  like  caverns,  being 
arched  all  over  and  plunging  down  abruptly  towards 
an  unknown  darkness,  which,  when  you  have  fath- 
omed its  depths,  admits  you  to  a  daylight  that  you 
scarcely  hoped  to  behold  again. ' ' 

Old  palaces  overshadow  these  narrow,  crooked  streets, 
built  many  stories  high  and  close  together  for  protec- 
tion against  enemies  without  and  factional  feuds 
at  home;  such  as  those  between  the  powerful  houses 

12 


LA  SUPERBA  IN    THE    CLOUDS 

of  Doria,  Spinola,  Fieschi,  and  the  like.  The  majority 
of  these  buildings  have  fallen  from  their  ancient 
glory,  and  look,  as  Angela  says,  like  tenement  houses. 
This  plebeian  association  is  carried  out  by  the  squalid 
appearance  of  the  inhabitants,  and  by  the  clothes- 
lines stretched  across  the  streets  from  window  to 
window,  on  which  are  hung  garments  of  every  size, 
degree,  color,  and  ingenuity  of  patch,  the  predom- 
inant red  and  white  lending  a  certain  picturesqueness 
to  the  motley  array. 

Turning  a  corner,  we  suddenly  found  ourselves 
in  the  midst  of  a  quarrel,  or  a  violent  altercation  at 
the  best,  between  a  pretty  signora  at  a  fourth-floor 
window  and  a  vendor  of  fruits  and  vegetables  on  the 
sidewalk  below.  The  language  which  the  lady  used, 
as  she  leaned  far  out  of  the  window,  was  so  vigor- 
ous that  no  interpreter  was  needed  to  make  her  mean- 
ing plain:  the  merchant  was  a  charlatan  and  a  vil- 
lain; the  saints  were  all  called  upon  as  witnesses  to 
his  depravity.  He,  the  so-called  vendor  of  over-ripe 
fruit,  pointed  to  his  wares,  beating  his  breast  and 
spreading  out  his  hands  in  token  of  his  spotless 
innocence.  He  sell  over-ripe  oranges  ?  All  his  neigh- 
bors would  testify  to  his  poverty  and  that  of  his  family 
because  he,  honest  one,  daily  sacrificed  hundreds  of 
oranges  to  satisfy  his  unreasonable  customers ! 

13 


ITALIAN    DAYS   AND  WAYS 

The  signora's  dark  eyes  flashed,  the  Spanish  man- 
tilla upon  her  head  shook  in  sympathy  with  the 
violence  of  her  emotions,  as  she  repeated  her  vocabu- 
lary of  epithets.  We  were  thankful  that  four  stories 
separated  the  combatants,  and  retiring  under  the 
shadow  of  a  doorway  we  anxiously  awaited  results. 
Something  happened,  we  know  not  what;  the  fruit 
may  have  been  reduced  the  fraction  of  a  penny; 
whatever  it  was,  a  truce  was  declared,  during  which 
the  signora's  basket,  filled  with  fruit  and  artichokes, 
was  drawn  up  to  the  window  by  a  rope.  After  the 
lady  had  carefully  inspected  each  individual  fruit 
and  vegetable,  she  smiled  blandly,  lowered  some 
money  in  her  basket,  and  the  pair  parted  with  bows 
and  compliments.  Juliet  on  her  balcony  could  not 
have  been  more  graceful,  nor  Romeo  on  the  pavement 
below  more  gallant  than  this  shabby  venditore,  as  he 
swept  the  ground  with  his  cap,  one  hand  upon  his 
heart ! 

Feeling  that  we  owed  something  to  somebody  for 
the  pleasure  that  this  little  drama  had  afforded  us, 
we  crossed  the  street  and  bought  from  the  chief 
actor  some  fresh  dates  such  as  we  had  first  tasted 
in  Algiers.  As  we  paid  the  asking  price  without 
protest,  we  felt  quite  sure  that  the  valiant  little 
merchant  was  making  off  us  anything  that  he  may 

14 


LA  SUPERBA  IN    THE    CLOUDS 

have  lost  in  his  previous  transaction;  but  the  dates, 
of  a  delicate  amber  color,  as  sweet  as  honey  and 
almost  as  transparent,  were  worth  whatever  price 
we  paid  for  them. 

After  much  turning  and  retracing  of  steps,  and 
laughing  over  being  lost  and  not  having  the  power 
to  make  inquiries  with  any  certainty  of  being  under- 
stood, we  finally  gained  wider  and  more  open  streets, 
and  on  the  Piazza  Banchi  found  an  exchange,  where 
we  were  able  to  get  some  money  on  our  letters  of 
credit. 

After  attending  to  this  practical  detail  we  turned 
into  the  little  old  Via  Orefici,  Jewellers'  Street,  with 
its  many  goldsmiths'  shops.  Over  one  of  the  doors  is 
a  Virgin  and  Child,  so  beautiful  that  it  cost  the 
artist  his  life.  Pellegrino  Piola's  master,  insanely 
jealous  of  this  work  of  his  pupil,  rose  up  in  wrath  and 
killed  him.  Even  the  patron,  St.  Eloy,  was  unable  to 
save  poor  Piola's  life,  but  the  guild  of  smiths,  who 
revere  St.  Eloy  as  their  patron  saint,  invoked  his  aid 
to  preserve  this  lovely  fresco  from  the  ruthless  hands 
of  Napoleon  when  he  would  have  carried  it  off  to 
France. 

As  we  passed  window  after  window,  some  with 
their  display  of  exquisite  gold  and  silver  filigree  and 
others  containing  lofty  pyramids  of  the  most  deli- 

15 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 

eious-looking  candied  fruit,  Angela  said  that  after  a 
few  hours'  stay  in  Genoa  she  was  quite  sure  of  two 
characteristics  of  the  Genoese :  a  passion  for  jewelry, 
especially  of  the  filigree  sort,  and  an  inordinate 
appetite  for  sweets.  The  pretty,  delicate  ornaments, 
I  am  inclined  to  think,  are  only  spread  forth  to  tempt 
the  unwary  tourist;  but  the  Italian  taste  for  sweets 
is  proverbial,  whetted,  doubtless,  by  the  high  price 
of  sugar  and  the  exquisiteness  of  the  native  con- 
fections. 

Strolling  along  the  fine,  wide  Via  Vittorio  Eman- 
uele,  eating  our  dates  like  true  Bohemians  and  gaz- 
ing about  us  upon  the  sights  of  the  strange  city,  we 
turned,  almost  involuntarily,  into  the  busy  thorough- 
fare of  the  Via  San  Lorenzo,  where  we  were  con- 
fronted by  the  great  facade  of  the  cathedral  of  the 
same  name,  with  huge  stone  lions  standing  guard 
at  the  door.  Above  the  entrance — grewsome  and 
realistic  spectacle — is  poor  St.  Lawrence  broiling 
away  on  his  stone  gridiron!  We  shall  doubtless 
behold  many  such  spectacles  during  our  travels, 
and  may,  like  Mark  Twain,  become  quite  hardened 
to  the  sight  of  St.  Sebastian  stuck  full  of  arrows, 
and  of  lovely  young  St.  Anastasia  and  of  many 
others,  of  whom  the  world  was  not  worthy,  smiling 
amid  the  flames  j  but  this  realistic  thrusting  of  St, 

16 


LA   SUPERBA  IN   THE    CLOUDS 

Lawrence  and  his  gridiron  into  the  life  of  to-day, 
as  an  ornament  to  a  church,  impressed  us  as  un- 
worthy of  a  people  credited  with  a  sense  of  beauty 
and  fitness. 

"We  were  thankful  to  turn  from  the  cathedral, 
whose  interior  we  may  explore  to-morrow,  and,  like 
good  Americans,  wend  our  way  along  the  Via  Balbi, 
with  its  many  palaces  and  handsome  university  build- 
ings, to  a  lovely  little  square  called  Acquaverde,  where 
there  is  a  handsome  modern  statue  of  Columbus. 
Beside  the  really  fine  figure  of  the  Genoese  navigator 
is  a  woman  who  represents  either  Columbia  or  an 
Italianized  American  Indian,  we  were  not  sure  which, 
to  whom  Columbus  is  offering  the  Catholic  religion 
and  other  blessings  of  civilization.  From  the  benevo- 
lent expression  of  the  donor  it  is  evident  that  he 
is  making  the  presentation  in  good  faith,  although  the 
lady  appears  singularly  indifferent  to  the  gifts  offered 
her. 

Some  children  with  large,  dark  eyes  and  round, 
rosy  cheeks,  beautiful  enough  to  serve  as  models  for 
the  Holy  Child  and  St.  John,  were  playing  in  the 
little  green  square  some  rhymed  game  in  which  their 
high,  clear  voices  rang  out  joyously.  It  was  probably 
an  Italian  equivalent  for  "  ring-around-the-rosy  "  or 
' '  hot  butter-beans. ' '  We  longed  to  know  just  what 
2  17 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 

the  words  meant.  Zelphine  bribed  the  singers  with 
soldi  to  an  encore;  but,  alas!  the  song  fell  upon  ears 
dull  of  understanding.  This  was  the  merriest  scene 
that  we  have  found  in  Genoa,  which  does  not  impress 
us  as  a  gay  city  at  all;  but  what  mature  and  sane 
community  could  be  merry  under  skies  as  leaden  as 
these  ? 

We  are  lodged  in  an  old  palace,  which  opens  out  on 
those  most  disappointing  arcades  of  which  we  have 
read  such  fascinating  descriptions.  We  see  no  pretty 
young  Genoese  women  in  thin  muslin  veils  nor  hand- 
some matrons  in  veils  of  flowered  chintz ;  probably  the 
rain  keeps  them  and  their  finery  indoors.  We  remind 
ourselves,  from  time  to  time,  that  we  are  dwelling 
in  marble  halls  for  the  first  time  in  our  lives,  and 
yet  some  of  the  appointments  of  this  rather  expensive 
alb  ergo  are  not  equal  to  those  of  a  second  or  third 
class  hotel  in  America.  My  room  is  spacious,  with 
windows  opening  to  the  floor  and  commanding  a  fine 
view  of  the  harbor,  where  many  ships  lie  at  anchor, 
among  them  the  floating  city  in  which  we  came  hither. 
It  makes  us  feel  at  home  to-night  to  see  the  lights 
of  the  Augusta  Victoria,  and  we  wave  friendly  greet- 
ings to  her  and  our  fellow-voyagers  across  the  bay. 

' '  We  were  far  more  comfortable  in  our  little  state- 
rooms on  the  ship  than  we  shall  ever  be  in  this  damp 

18 


LA  SUPERBA  IN    THE    CLOUDS 

palace!"  said  Angela,  shivering.     "  This  room  feels 
like  a  cellar.    Do  they  never  have  any  fires  here?" 

' '  Yes,  behold  the  fireplace ! "  I  replied,  drawing 
aside  a  screen  and  revealing  a  small  hole  in  the  wall. 
"  We  will  bask  in  the  warmth  of  a  cheerful  blaze  this 
evening,  and  toast  our  toes  before  the  glowing  coals." 

As  luck  would  have  it,  the  chimney  did  not  draw 
well,  probably  not  having  been  used  in  this  century, 
and  so  instead  of  a  cheerful  blaze  we  had  clouds  of 
smoke,  and  went  to  bed  to  dream  of  snow-storms  and 
icebergs. 

February  20th. 

I  awoke  to  hear  the  rain  beating  against  my  window 
and  Angela's  merry  voice  at  my  side,  saying,  "  Such 
an  experience !  Zelphine  rang  our  bell,  thinking  that 
she  would  have  a  fire  or  smoke  or  something  to  take 
off  the  deadly  chill  from  our  room.  In  a  minute  there 
came  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  instead  of  the  chamber- 
maid there  stood  a  grand  gentleman  in  a  blue  coat  and 
brass  buttons,  with  a  breakfast-tray — the  proprietor 
or  head  waiter,  I  should  say.  We  hadn  't  the  courage 
to  say  a  word  about  fire  to  this  dignified  person.  In- 
deed, he  gave  us  no  time  to  say  anything,  as  he  set  the 
tray  on  a  table  beside  the  bed,  and  vanished  with 
'  Madame  est  servie. '  Of  course  Z.  is  the  madame ; 
I  don't  count,  being  jeune  file.  Such  manners  Z.  says 

19 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 

she  has  seldom  seen  in  a  ballroom  at  home.  So  now, 
Margaret,  the  breakfast  is  there  and  must  be  eaten. 
Do  order  yours,  and  let  us  breakfast  together. ' ' 

"A  kimono  dejeuner  a  trois,"  I  said,  laughing 
over  Angela's  ignorance  of  Continental  ways,  to 
which  I  had  become  quite  accustomed  during  my  art 
winter  in  Paris  with  Katharine  Clarke. 

"A  second  ring  may  fetch  the  maid  and  fire,"  said 
Angela,  pressing  the  button. 

This,  however,  only  served  to  bring  the  blue-coated 
waiter,  with  another  tray  of  coffee  and  rolls.  It  was 
some  time  before  we  were  able  to  get  the  maid,  who, 
in  turn,  sent  for  the  facchino  who  attends  to  the 
fires,  and  he,  assisted  by  another  facchino,  finally 
succeeded  in  fanning  into  a  blaze  the  infinitesimal 
quantity  of  wood  used  here  for  a  fire.  This  "  house 
that  Jack  built  "  distribution  of  labor  is  rather  puz- 
zling to  the  uninitiated.  We  are  wondering  how  we 
shall  ever  compass  the  problem  of  fees,  so  many 
people  are  serving  us. 

"  I  don't  wonder  that  Eugene  Field  sang  with 
longing  of  the  '  land  of  stoves  and  sunshine,'  "  said 
Zelphine,  as  she  held  her  hands  over  the  feeble  flame, 
"  if  he  ever  stayed  in  Genoa  in  February." 

This  is  the  nearest  approach  to  a  complaint  that 
Zelphine  has  uttered  since  we  left  New  York.  She 

20 


LA  SUPERBA  IN   THE    CLOUDS 

accepts  everything  that  comes  to  us,  good,  bad,  or 
indifferent,  as  a  part  of  the  game.  We  breakfasted 
heartily,  calling  for  more  rolls  and  boiled  eggs,  to 
the  evident  but  entirely  well-bred  astonishment  of 
the  presiding  genius,  who  was  not  accustomed  to  such 
early  morning  appetites. 

The  rain  continued  to  pour  in  torrents ;  and  here 
let  me  confess,  with  more  or  less  contrition,  that  we 
were  all  three  most  desperately  homesick.  Whether 
it  was  that  we  missed  our  pleasant  fellow-travellers 
who  were  steaming  off  for  Nice  to-day,  or  because  of 
the  persistent  rain,  we,  one  after  another,  fell  a  prey 
to  the  depressing  malady.  Angela,  first  of  all,  with 
eyes  full  of  tears,  wondered  many  times,  in  language 
more  or  less  strenuous,  why  she  had  ever  left  her 
happy  home  for  these  inhospitable  shores;  and  I — 
well,  it  matters  little  what  I  said.  Zelphine  surprised 
me  weeping  over  my  travelling-hat,  which,  although 
it  did  present  a  rather  dilapidated  appearance  after 
yesterday's  rain,  failed  to  afford  sufficient  cause  for 
my  tears.  She,  the  heroic  one,  who  had  never  told  her 
woe,  in  attempting  to  console  me  broke  down  her- 
self, and  we  wept  in  each  other's  arms,  which  had  the 
good  result  of  bringing  Angela  to  our  side  and  mak- 
ing her  laugh  heartily.  Finally,  in  desperation,  I 
proposed  that  we  should  order  a  cab  and  drive  over 

21 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 

to  the  Hotel  de  Londres  and  try  to  find  some  of  our 
steamer  friends  who  expected  to  stay  here  a  few  days 
en  route  for  Florence. 

We  were  cordially  welcomed  by  Bertha  Linn  and 
Mrs.  Robins,  who  received  us  in  their  rooms,  one  of 
which  was  comfortably  heated  by  a  porcelain  stove. 
Despite  their  more  favorable  surroundings,  we  soon 
discovered  that  our  two  countrywomen  were  as  down- 
hearted as  ourselves.  Bertha,  seated  upon  a  trunk, 
looking  about  as  cheerful  as  Miss  Betsey  Trotwood 
when  she  came  up  to  London  in  pursuit  of  her  scat- 
tered fortune,  expressed  herself  to  the  effect  that 
foreign  travel  might  be  of  advantage  educationally 
and  enlarging  to  the  mind,  but  for  her  part  she  pre- 
ferred her  own  country,  and  would  gladly  take  the 
next  steamer  back  to  New  York.  Angela  heartily 
agreed  with  Bertha,  while  Zelphine  begged  her  to 
remember  the  enchanting  days  we  had  spent  in  Ma- 
deira and  Granada,  and  that  even  more  delightful  ex- 
periences lay  before  us,  assuring  them  that  Italy  is 
not  a  proverbially  rainy  country,  et  cetera;  in  the 
midst  of  which  profitable  conversation  Mrs.  Robins 
suggested  that  we  should  take  cabs  and  drive  to  the 
Campo  Santo,  by  way  of  a  diversion. 

"  We  certainly  are  in  a  proper  frame  of  mind  for 
a  visit  to  a  cemetery,"  said  Angela,  laughing  a  cheer- 

22 


LA  SUPERBA  IN    THE    CLOUDS 

less  laugh,  with  a  minor  chord  in  it  suggestive  of 
tears  near  the  surface. 

No  place  could  be  more  admirably  adapted  for  a 
rainy  day  excursion  than  the  Campo  Santo  of  Genoa, 
as  that  vast  cemetery  is  nearly  all  under  cover.  Our 
first  impression  of  the  long  galleries  with  their  monu- 
ments and  low  reliefs,  many  of  them  decorated  with 
photographs  of  the  dead  and  overhung  with  the  taste- 
less wreaths  of  tin  flowers  dear  to  the  Continental 
mourner,  was  of  something  hopelessly  inartistic  and 
artificial.  Among  the  many  shockingly  realistic  and 
inappropriate  monuments  we  found  a  few  simple  and 
beautiful  statues  and  low  reliefs.  You  remember  how 
many  of  the  monuments  in  Westminster  Abbey  are 
in  bad  taste  and  overweighted  with  carved  ornaments ; 
the  majority  of  these  are  not  less  artistic,  but  one  has 
a  right  to  expect  more  beauty  and  grace  in  Italy  than 
in  England,  and  then  the  grand  old  abbey  lends  a 
certain  dignity  to  everything  within  its  walls.  The 
Campo  Santo  looks  more  like  a  picture-gallery  than  a 
necropolis;  but  chacun  a  son  gout.  This  is  evidently 
the  gout  of  the  Genoese,  and  the  name  of  their  ceme- 
tery is  so  beautiful  that  I,  for  one,  am  inclined  to 
overlook  lack  of  taste  in  other  matters. 

The  tomb  of  the  patriot  Giuseppe  Mazzini  is  in 
this  Campo  Santo,  above  the  rotunda  and  over  against 

23 


ITALIAN   DAYS    AND    WAYS 

the  steep  hillside.  It  did  not  impress  us  particularly ; 
but  we  found  ourselves  turning  again  and  again  to 
the  figure  of  an  old  woman  in  a  fine  brocade  gown, 
with  a  ring  of  bread,  which  here  they  call  pain  de  la 
couronne,  over  her  arm,  and  what  seemed  to  be  strings 
of  large  pearls  depending  from  her  waist. 

"  It  is  evidently  the  statue  of  some  great  lady  who 
sold  her  pearls  to  raise  money  to  feed  the  poor," 
said  Zelphine.  "  Here  are  the  pearls,  and  she  carries 
the  bread  on  her  arm  just  as  the  peasants  do  in  Spain 
and  in  all  these  southern  countries.  I  wish  we  could 
find  the  story  somewhere  and  the  lady's  name.  This 
statue  may  have  been  erected  by  a  grateful  people  in 
recognition  of  her  generous  aid." 

' '  She  certainly  has  the  face  and  bearing  of  a  peas- 
ant, rather  than  of  a  grand  lady, ' '  said  Bertha. 

Just  then  we  heard  a  low,  infectious  laugh  behind 
us,  and  turned  to  find  General  "W.,  one  of  our  ship's 
company,  who  was  evidently  much  amused  by  our 
discussion,  and  made  haste  to  tear  Zelphine 's  romance 
into  shreds  by  explaining  that  her  Lady  Bountiful 
was  a  peasant  woman  who  made  quite  a  sum  of  money 
by  selling  bread  and  nuts  on  the  streets  of  Genoa. 
Having  an  ambition  to  rest  with  the  rich  and  great 
in  the  Campo  Santo,  under  a  fine  monument,  she 
bought  the  right  to  be  buried  here  for  three  thousand 

24 


LA   SUPERBA   IN   THE    CLOUDS 

francs,  and  had  the  pleasure  of  ordering  her  own 
monument,  for  which  she  paid  six  thousand  francs. 
Nine  thousand  francs,  in  all,  for  glory — quite  a 
fortune  for  a  peasant ! 

"  The  pearls  are  only  nuts,  after  all!"  exclaimed 

Zelphine,  "  and " 

'  The  cake  is  dough,"  said  Bertha,  laughing;  "  but 
it  is  all  very  interesting  as  a  study  in  human  nature. 
I  don't  doubt  the  poor  woman  found  great  satisfac- 
tion in  looking  at  this  fine  figure  of  herself. ' ' 

1 '  She  did  not  have  even  that  satisfaction, ' '  replied 
General  W.,  ' '  for  she  died  soon  after  she  had  ordered 
it,  in  a  street  brawl  or  something  of  the  sort.  Sic 
transit  gloria  mundi." 

"  How  you  do  break  down  our  images  and  bowl 
over  our  idols ! ' '  exclaimed  Angela. 

We  had  dismissed  our  cabs  on  entering  the  Campo 
Santo,  and,  as  the  rain  had  ceased  for  the  time,  we 
returned  by  the  electric  tram  of  the  Via  di  Circon- 
vallazione  a  Mare,  which  runs  close  to  the  sea,  and 
which,  as  Angela  says,  besides  circumambulating  the 
city,  is  a  clever  way  of  circumventing  the  cabman. 
Our  homesickness  had  disappeared  amid  the  shades 
of  the  departed,  and,  a  merry  party,  we  made  our 
way  to  the  Concordia,  that  most  delightful  garden- 
cafe.  Here  we  lunched  upon  risotto  (rice  made  yellow 

25 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 

with  saffron),  spaghetti,  and  other  Italian  dishes, 
with  an  accompaniment  of  bread  in  small  sticks,  crisp 
and  brown. 

February  21st. 

A  note  has  just  come  from  your  cousin,  Genevra 
Fuller,  urging  us  to  make  her  a  visit  at  her  home  in 
San  Remo.  This  invitation,  which  is  most  cordial, 
is  a  temptation  to  us  all,  but  Zelphine  and  Angela 
have  promised  to  spend  their  time  with  friends  in 
Nice,  stopping  for  a  day  at  Monte  Carlo,  if  their 
sporting  tastes  lead  them  so  far  afield,  while  I  yield 
to  Genevra 's  blandishments.  You  know  of  old  that 
she  is  not  a  person  to  be  lightly  refused  when  she  has 
set  her  heart  upon  any  given  thing — a  family  trait,  I 
believe. 


26 


II 

ALONG  THE   RIVIERA 


February  22d. 

OF  course  the  sun  was  shining  when  we  left  Genoa. 
We  were  glad  to  see  how  fair  La  Superba  could  be, 
with  her  terraced  gardens,  many  villas,  and  noble 
background  of  blue  mountains.  Indeed,  I  confess  to 
some  qualms  of  conscience,  feeling  that  I  may  have 
given  you  a  too  gloomy  picture  of  the  fine  old  city; 
but  how  can  one  give  a  cheerful  view  of  the  attractions 
of  a  place  where  one's  gayest  hours  were  spent  in  a 
cemetery  ? 

Our  way  lay  along  the  sea  by  the  Western  Riviera, 
one  of  the  garden  spots  of  the  world.  The  railroad 
winds  in  and  out  among  the  rocks,  or  into  tunnels 
pierced  through  them,  often  running  parallel  with  the 
famous  Cornice  Drive,  which  was  for  many  years  the 
only  road  from  Genoa  to  Nice.  The  beauty  of  this 
drive,  which  lies  sometimes  between  the  railroad  and 
the  sea  and  again  ascends  the  rocky  heights  beyond, 
made  us  wish  that  railroads  had  never  been  invented. 
A  coach  and  four,  a  Cinderella  coach,  would  be  the 

27 


ITALIAN   DAYS    AND    WAYS 

only  suitable  equipage  in  which  to  make  this  journey 
into  fairyland. 

' '  Why  did  we  not  drive  ?  "  I  hear  you  ask,  and  you 
may  well  ask.  Because  the  railroad,  dashing  in  and 
out  of  tunnels,  often  crosses  the  drive  most  unex- 
pectedly and  on  the  grade.  Even  Zelphine,  much  as 
she  wished  to  drive  over  the  self-same  road  taken  by 
her  dear  Lucy  in  "  Doctor  Antonio,"  hesitated  about 
imperilling  her  neck,  and  I  was  quite  resolute  upon 
this  point.  And  if  Zelphine  and  I  were  so  reckless  as 
to  be  willing  to  risk  our  own  lives,  have  we  not  under 
our  care  the  only  and  well-beloved  daughter  of  the 
ancient  and  honorable  house  of  Haldane? 

Did  I  say  that  the  train  dashed  ?  Really,  that  was  a 
slip  of  the  pen — nothing  dashes  in  Italy  except  a 
mountain  torrent ;  but  where  there  are  so  many  grade 
crossings,  even  a  slow  train  may  be  dangerous.  We 
proceeded  moderately  and  sedately  upon  our  shining 
way,  skirting  the  sapphire  sea,  dotted  here  and  there 
with  green  islands.  Reaching  far  out  into  the  blue, 
one  may  see  small  towns  which  seem  bent  upon  wash- 
ing their  white  houses  to  a  more  dazzling  whiteness  in 
the  clear  water,  painted  towns  against  a  painted  sea 
and  sky.  Other  hamlets  and  villas,  with  their  green 
jalousies  and  their  luxuriant  gardens  full  of  flowers 
and  orange-trees,  are  on  the  heights  above,  and  not 

28 


ALONG   THE    RIVIERA 


seldom  a  solitary  sanctuary  is  seen,  perched  upon 
some  sea-washed  cliff,  the  cherished  guardian  of  the 
shore. 

Now  indeed,  looking  up  at  the  terraced  olive-groves, 
we  feel  that  we  are  in  Italy.  For  many  miles  the 
road  lies  beside  these  gardens,  which  are  monuments 
to  Italian  thrift  and  industry,  as  every  square  inch 
of  the  scanty  earth  on  the  hillsides  is  held  in  place  by 
stone  walls,  one  above  another,  until  some  are  almost 
mountain  high,  olive-trees  growing  to  the  very  top. 
On  the  sunny  plains  between  the  hills  are  acres  of  car- 
nations, violets,  stock-gillies,  and  mignonette,  which 
fill  the  air  with  their  delicious  fragrance.  From  these 
immense  gardens  the  large  cities  are  supplied  with 
flowers,  and  also  the  manufactories  of  perfumes. 
Hundreds  of  the  beautiful  blossoms,  they  tell  us,  are 
sacrificed  to  make  a  single  drop  of  essence. 

We  passed  by  Albenga  and  Alassio,  over  the  suspen- 
sion bridge  at  Porto  Maurizio,  and  so  on  to  Taggia, 
which  is  near  San  Remo,  where  we  three  were  to 
part  company  for  a  few  days.  Off  to  the  right  we 
could  see  the  picturesque  ruins  of  Bussana  Vecchia, 
destroyed  by  an  earthquake  as  late  as  1887,  never 
rebuilt,  and  now  standing  silent  and  desolate  on  the 
hill-top  above  its  namesake,  the  little  modern  town  of 
Bussana  Nuova. 

29 


ITALIAN   DAYS    AND    WAYS 

Our  view  of  Poggio  and  Bussana  Yecchia  was  sud- 
denly cut  off  by  an  inopportune  tunnel,  from  which 
we  emerged  into  the  brilliant  sunshine,  to  see  before 
us  the  pretty  villas,  the  waving  palms,  and  the  general 
air  of  cultivation  and  bien-etre  that  belong  to  this 
favorite  and  highly  favored  town.  When  Zelphine  and 
Angela  caught  this  glimpse  of  San  Remo  from  the 
train,  and  saw  Genevra's  children  waiting  for  me  at 
the  station,  I  am  quite  sure  they  repented  them  of 
their  decision. 

I  had  not  seen  Roger  and  Phoebe  since  they  were 
babies,  but  I  knew  them  at  once,  and  we  are  already 
fast  friends.  Genevra's  welcome,  as  you  may  believe, 
was  of  the  warmest.  It  is  delightful  to  be  in  a  home 
again,  after  tossing  about  in  a  state-room  and  knock- 
ing around  in  strange  hotels,  and  in  a  home  as  charm- 
ing as  this ! 

February  25th. 

Everything  is  delightfully  foreign  in  this  menage; 
Genevra  lives  in  an  apartment,  as  most  people  do  here ; 
hers  is  on  the  second  floor,  with  a  huge  salon  on 
one  side  of  the  hall,  a  salle  a  manger  on  the  other, 
and  the  usual  complement  of  bedrooms,  kitchens,  and 
the  like.  This  is  quite  different  from  anything  we 
have  in  America,  where  the  apartments  are  on  a  scale 
of  princely  magnificence,  with  prices  to  match,  or  of 

30 


ALONG   THE   RIVIERA 


a  simplicity  so  extreme  that  "  flat  "  seems  to  designate 
appropriately  both  them  and  the  condition  of  those 
who  inhabit  them.  This  apartment  is  really  a  house 
on  one  floor ;  the  entrance  and  stone  stairway  are  quite 
palatial,  and  yet  it  is  a  bon  marche.  The  drawing- 
room  is  spacious,  with  windows  to  the  floor,  opening 
out  on  balconies  on  which  we  step  out  to  see  the  ber- 
saglieri  drill  in  the  evenings,  as  the  children  are  on 
the  qui  vive  from  the  moment  the  spirited  music 
reaches  their  ears. 

Genevra's  large  salon  is  heated  by  an  open  fire  of 
olive-wood,  which  she  says  makes  it  warm  enough 
except  when  the  winters  are  unusually  cold.  The 
English  ladies  who  come  to  tea  in  the  afternoon  throw 
aside  their  wraps,  exclaiming,  "Ah,  Mrs.  Fuller's 
drawing-room  is  always  so  very  hot!" 

Hot  is  not  exactly  the  word  that  I  should  apply  to 
dear  Genevra  's  pretty  drawing-room,  although  I  know 
that  Lucie  and  Marthe  are  piling  on  extra  wood  all 
the  time  in  compliment  to  Mademoiselle,  the  shiver- 
ing American. 

Everything  in  this  house  moves  with  a  delightful 
smoothness  and  ease,  and  the  whole  atmosphere  of  the 
place  is  indescribably  restful.  When  I  awake  in  the 
morning  I  touch  a  bell,  which  soon  brings  to  my 
bedside  the  trim,  neat-handed  Lucie  with  rolls  and 

31 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 


coffee.  This  morning  my  breakfast-tray  was  glorified 
with  great  bunches  of  dark  purple  and  light  Neapoli- 
tan violets. 

"  "What  is  the  meaning  of  this  reckless  extrava- 
gance ? "  I  call  out  to  Genevra,  whose  room  is  next  to 
mine. 

"  Extravagance,  ma  belle!  "  replies  Genevra. 
"  Flowers  are  one  of  the  economies  of  San  Remo.  If 
I  were  to  carpet  your  path  with  violets  it  would  be  a 
cheap  pleasure  for  me  at  the  rate  of  two  soldi  a 
bunch!"  Wasn't  that  like  Genevra? — like  the  old 
Genevra,  yet  with  a  certain  grace  learned  from  these 
charming  Italians!  Only  half  believing  her,  and  yet 
comforted  by  her  assurances,  I  enjoy  the  delicious  fra- 
grance of  the  violets  while  I  luxuriously  sip  my  coffee 
and  read  the  opening  pages  of  Ruffini's  "  Doctor 
Antonio. ' ' 

Yesterday  we  drove  to  Bordighera,  and  Genevra 
and  I  tried  to  find  the  place  near  Ospedaletti  where 
Sir  John  Davenne's  coach  came  to  grief  by  the  road- 
side. It  was  disappointing  to  find  no  trace  of  Rosa's 
little  inn,  only  great  hotels,  a  casino,  and  all  manner 
of  extravagant  and  unromantic  modern  innovations. 
The  sea  and  the  picturesque  coast  are  fortunately  the 
same,  and  Genevra  pointed  out  to  me  the  great  rock 
near  which  Battista  rowed  Lucy's  boat  while  Antonio 

32 


ALONG   THE    RIVIERA 


told  Sir  John  how  cleverly  the  valiant  citizens  of 
Bordighera  had  here  outwitted  the  British  in  their 
brig-of-war.  And  on  this  road  the  Doctor  walked 
home  by  moonlight,  after  an  evening  with  Sir  John 
and  Lucy,  singing  ' '  0  bell '  alma  innamorata  ! ' '  Poor, 
dear,  brave  Antonio — love,  dear  love,  treated  him 
shabbily  enough!  Your  mother  will  remember  read- 
ing this  story  to  me  on  one  of  my  early  visits  to  Wood- 
ford.  Although  I  was  but  a  child  then,  my  wrath 
rose  hot  against  Lucy 's  treatment  of  Antonio.  After 
her  marriage  with  Lord  Cleverton  I  refused  to  listen 
to  another  word  about  the  faithless  Lucy,  until  curi- 
osity and  a  real  fondness  for  the  pretty  blonde  hero- 
ine sent  me  back  to  this  saddest  of  stories,  over  which 
I  wept  as  girls  of  an  earlier  time  wept  over  "  The 
Sorrows  of  Werther. " 

This  digression  is  all  apropos  of  Bordighera,  which  is 
most  interesting  aside  from  its  associations  with  Lucy 
and  her  lover,  with  its  enchanting  Coast  Promenade 
ending  at  the  Spianata  del  Capo.  From  this  prom- 
ontory there  is  a  noble  view  of  Ventimiglia,  Mentone, 
Monaco,  Villafranca  and  its  light-house;  beyond  is 
the  long,  low  line  of  the  French  shore,  and  still  beyond, 
the  Maritime  Alps,  with  flecks  of  snow  upon  their 
sides,  while  near  us,  at  our  feet,  lies  the  bay  of 
Ospedaletti,  sparkling  in  the  sun.  Bordighera  is  lit- 
3  33 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 


erally  framed  in  by  palm-trees — palms  to  right,  to 
left,  everywhere.  No  wonder  that  this  little  town 
long  had  the  exclusive  honor  of  supplying  the  palms 
to  St.  Peter's  in  Rome  for  Palm  Sunday;  but  thereby 
hangs  a  tale  which  I  may  not  relate  to-day,  as  Genevra 
bids  me  drop  my  pen  and  join  her  and  her  friends 
over  a  cup  of  tea. 

February  26th. 

The  days  pass  all  too  quickly  in  this  charming  place. 
My  mornings  are  generally  spent  in  walking — some- 
times on  the  Promenade  du  Midi,  which  lies  near  the 
sea,  a  beautiful,  palm-bordered  terrace  above  the  beach 
— or  in  wandering  through  the  old  quarter  of  San 
Remo,  with  Roger  and  Phrebe  by  my  side.  Here  are 
narrow,  precipitous  streets  like  those  of  Genoa,  in 
strong  contrast  with  the  gay  walk  by  the  sea,  which 
has  all  the  characteristics  of  a  foreign  watering-place. 
The  vive  la  bagatelle  existence  of  the  Promenade  du 
Midi  is  not  without  its  charm  once  in  a  while,  but  in 
the  winding  streets  of  the  old  town  is  the  typical  life 
of  San  Remo. 

We  watch  the  vendors  of  f  ruit,  vegetables,  nuts,  and 
herbs  displaying  their  simple  wares  upon  the  side- 
walk, or  stroll  down  by  the  bank  where  the  washing 
is  done,  picturesquely,  if  somewhat  laboriously,  in  the 
open.  The  lavandaie  are,  most  of  them,  vigorous  young 

34 


ALONG   THE    RIVIERA 


creatures,  and  as  they  beat  the  clothes  against  the 
stones  or  rinse  them  in  the  clear,  running  water,  their 
merry  chatter  and  laughter  suggest  social  joys  even 
beyond  those  of  our  voluble  Bridgets  at  home. 

Your  mother's  favorite  saw  about  the  back  being 
fitted  to  the  burden  often  recurs  to  me  here.  If  these 
peasants  are  poor,  their  wants  are  few,  they  live  in  a 
divine  climate,  the  whole  of  the  out-of-doors  is  theirs, 
and,  above  all,  they  have  dispositions  and  digestions 
that  may  well  cause  them  to  be  envied  of  princes. 
Dr.  A.,  Genevra  's  physician,  tells  me  that  the  peasants 
here  are  usually  healthy  and  the  children  as  robust  as 
they  are  handsome.  This  Italian  gentleman  is  one 
of  the  interesting  characters  of  San  Remo.  I  always 
feel  like  calling  him  Doctor  Antonio,  for  although  Dr. 
A.  has  travelled  extensively,  and  speaks  English  per- 
fectly, he  is  quite  Italian  in  appearance  and  manner, 
and  so  loyally  devoted  to  his  Italy  that  I  am  quite 
sure  he  would  have  sacrificed  life  and  fortune  to  her 
cause  had  he  lived  in  the  stirring  times  that  developed 
Ruftmi's  heroic  Doctor  Antonio. 

On  Sunday  afternoon  Roger  and  Phoebe  drove  me  up 
to  the  little  sanctuary  of  the  Madonna  della  Guardia. 
Our  road  crossed  that  leading  to  Bussana  Veechia, 
which  picturesque  ruin  attracts  me  by  its  mystery  and 
its  remoteness  from  the  life  of  to-day.  If  you  were 

35 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


here  you  would  certainly  explore  the  remains  of  this 
old  town,  and  perhaps  you  would  take  me  with  you 
through  its  silent  streets.  Just  now  fate  seems  to  be 
against  my  seeing  it.  On  Saturday,  when  we  were 
all  ready  to  set  forth,  the  rain  fell  in  torrents,  and 
on  Sunday  there  was  no  time  to  stop  on  our  way  to 
Capo  Verde,  so  Bussana  Vecchia  seems  destined  to  be 
my  "  Carcassonne." 

The  little  sanctuary  of  the  Madonna  della  Guardia  is 
built,  like  the  home  of  the  wise  man  of  the  Scriptures, 
upon  a  rock,  crowning  the  promontory  of  Capo  Verde. 
From  the  heights  there  is  a  fine  panorama,  as  they  say 
here,  of  sea  and  shore;  Taggia  and  Poggio  were  at 
our  feet  as  we  stood  on  the  shelving  rock,  which  over- 
hangs a  sheer  declivity  of  many  feet.  In  the  church 
there  is  a  collection  of  curious  pictures,  votive  offer- 
ings, representing  men  and  women  in  the  midst  of 
deadly  peril  by  field  and  flood:  fishermen  in  boats 
tossing  upon  stormy  seas,  and  carriage-loads  of  pleas- 
ure-seekers pitching  down  precipices  or  dashing  along 
the  road  at  the  mercy  of  steeds  as  wild  as  that  of 
Mazeppa.  All  of  these  good  people,  as  appears  from 
the  expressions  of  gratitude  recorded  in  the  several 
paintings,  were  saved  from  sudden  and  horrible  death 
by  the  powerful  intervention  of  the  gentle  Mother  of 
Sorrows  and  Mercies. 

36 


ALONG    THE    RIVIERA 


I  am  finishing  this  letter  while  Genevra  sings  to  the 
children  their  good-night  songs  and  tucks  them  into 
their  beds.  To-morrow  will  be  a  full  day,  with  some 
commissions  to  be  attended  to  at  the  shops,  which  are 
tempting  here,  two  or  three  visits,  and  an  afternoon 
tea  with  some  charming  Scotch  ladies  at  the  Hotel  de 
Londres.  The  day  following  I  leave  here  for  Nice, 
having  decided  to  meet  Zelphine  and  Angela  there 
instead  of  at  Genoa  as  I  had  intended.  This  change 
of  plan  is  made  in  order  that  we  may  take  the  famous 
drive  from  Nice  to  Genoa,  which  Dr.  A.  assures  me 
is  not  as  dangerous  as  it  appears,  and  in  beauty  more 
nearly  approaches  the  description  of  Paradise  than 
anything  else  to  be  seen  upon  earthly  shores.  If  we 
make  the  trip  in  an  automobile,  which  we  shall  prob- 
ably do,  we  shall  have  a  couple  of  hours  to  spend  here 
with  Genevra  en  route  for  Genoa,  which  anticipation 
helps  to  console  her  for  her  disappointment  in  losing 
two  days  of  my  visit.  She  will  then  be  able  to  judge 
for  herself  whether  Angela  is  as  pretty  as  I  have 
described  her  and  whether  Zelphine  is  as  charming 
with  white  hair  as  with  brown,  questions  that  may 
seem  of  little  moment  to  the  masculine  mind,  but  are 
deeply  interesting  to  Genevra.  She  will  be  calling 
me  soon  to  join  her  at  what  Macaulay  calls  "  the 
curling  hour, ' '  which  we  count  the  best  in  the  twenty- 

37 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 


four.  Lucie  heaps  up  the  olive-wood  on  the  hearth 
until  it  blazes  brightly,  and  places  a  tray  with  choc- 
olate before  us.  Thus  cheered  and  sustained  we  gossip 
into  "  the  wee,  sma'  hours."  Genevra  asks  so  many 
questions  about  her  old  friends  that  we  should  have  to 
talk  until  the  cocks  crow  if  I  were  to  answer  them  all. 
By  the  way,  do  your  ears  ever  burn  these  nights  about 
twelve  o'  the  clock?  She  often  talks  of  you,  asks  if 
you  have  grown  more  sedate  with  added  years  and  dig- 
nities, whether  you  have  lost  your  habit  of  jesting, 
and  speaks  of  a  certain  merry  twinkle  in  the  corner  of 
your  eye  which  used  to  betray  you  when  mischief  was 
brewing — on  the  whole  Genevra  cherishes  a  very 
cousinly  affection  for  your  lordship.  There!  she  is 
calling  me,  so 

"  Good-night ! — if  the  longitude  please, — 
For,  maybe,  while  wasting  my  taper, 
Your  sun's  climbing  over  the  trees." 


38 


Ill 

CAPTURED   BY   A  CABMAN 


NAPLES,  March  2d. 

IF  Lady  Morgan  wrote  of  her  beloved  Irish  capital 
"  dear,  dirty  Dublin,"  we  may  describe  Naples  less 
alliteratively  in  somewhat  the  same  words,  except 
that  to  American  eyes  the  Neapolitan  city  is  even 
dirtier  and  vastly  more  beautiful.  Indeed,  no  words 
written  nor  pictures  painted  give  any  adequate  con- 
ception of  the  blueness  of  the  sea,  the  soft  purple 
shades  upon  the  mountains,  and  the  fine  transparency 
and  lightness  of  this  air.  One  breathes  in  gayety  with 
every  breath,  a  certain  elasticity  and  joie  de  vivre 
which  the  filth,  the  noise,  the  bad  odors,  and  even  the 
hopeless  poverty  all  around  us  are  powerless  to  dispel. 

From  the  Strada  Vittorio  Emanuele,  where  we  are 
stopping,  we  look  down  upon  a  series  of  terraced 
gardens,  some  of  them  very  poor  little  gardens  with  a 
few  vegetables,  among  them  the  omnipresent  and 
much  beloved  artichoke,  the  fennel,  like  a  coarse 
celery,  and  lettuce.  Roses  are  climbing  all  over  the 
walls  of  these  hillside  gardens,  and  in  many  of  them 

39 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 


orange-trees  are  blooming,  spreading  around  them  a 
delicious  perfume.  Here  on  the  heights  we  have  none 
of  the  disadvantages  of  Naples,  the  noise,  the  un- 
savory odors,  or  the  uncleanliness. 

Above  this  strada,  which  is  the  name  by  which  the 
Neapolitans  call  their  streets,  the  hills  tower  for 
many  feet,  and  way  up  on  their  crests  are  the  Castle 
of  St.  Elmo  and  the  old  Carthusian  monastery  of  San 
Martino.  We  visited  San  Martino  the  day  after  our 
arrival,  because  Zelphine  had  an  irrepressible  desire 
to  get  to  the  tip-top  of  everything  and  view  both  the 
city  and  bay  from  the  heights  above  us.  The  ascent 
was  made  in  one  of  the  funicolari,  cable  trams,  which 
are  used  so  much  over  here.  They  are  rather  terri- 
fying at  first,  but  are  said  to  be  quite  safe,  and  are,  I 
believe,  less  dangerous  than  many  of  our  elevators. 

The  old  monastery  is  now  a  museum,  under  the 
management  of  the  Museo  Nazionale,  and  contains 
many  paintings,  porcelains,  carvings,  and  other 
antiques.  We  neglected  the  treasures  within  for  the 
greater  pleasure  of  wandering  at  will  through  the 
charming,  picturesque  cloisters,  which  are  richly 
carved  and  of  a  stone  warm  and  creamy  in  tone,  so 
different  from  the  heavy,  dark  cloisters  one  sees  in 
England  and  elsewhere.  Most  of  our  morning  was 
spent  basking  in  the  sunshine  of  the  court;  we  could 

40 


CAPTURED   BY  A  CABMAN 


fancy  the  old  monks  enjoying,  as  we  did,  the  genial 
warmth  that  in  the  Southern  Italian  winter  is  only 
to  be  found  out  of  doors.  The  museum  itself  was 
damp,  as  are  all  the  galleries  at  this  season. 

In  this  court  are  a  number  of  handsome  sarcophagi, 
with  inscriptions  and  coats-of-arms  carved  in  the  mar- 
ble ;  from  hence  we  passed  into  the  Belvedere,  whose  bal- 
conies command  an  exquisite  view  of  the  city  and  bay. 
"We  gazed  long  at  the  noble  panorama  spread  before 
us,  from  Posilipo  to  the  hill  of  Capodimonte.  Over 
across  the  bay  wrere  Ischia  and  Capri,  blue  as  its 
own  grotto,  with  Sorrento 's  long  point  of  land  reaching 
out  into  the  sea,  and  off  in  the  far  distance  the  snow- 
line  of  the  Apennines.  To  our  left,  Vesuvius,  with 
its  three  peaks,  was  smoking  away  as  peacefully  as 
a  Hollander  on  his  hooge  stoep.  Seeing  them  by  day 
it  is  hard  to  believe  that  these  fair  blue  hills  could 
have  wrought  sudden  destruction  upon  the  cities  of 
the  plain ;  but  last  night,  when  flames  flashed  up  sky- 
ward from  the  smoking  crater,  I  must  confess  that  we 
had  some  misgivings.  When  we  beheld  these  danger- 
signals,  as  they  seemed  to  us,  we  carried  our  fears  and 
our  queries  to  the  padrone  and  the  concierge,  who  both 
assured  us,  to  their  own  satisfaction  if  not  entirely 
to  ours,  that  Vesuvius  has  never  erupted  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Naples,  evidently  feeling  that  Italian  volca- 

41 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 


noes,  like  Italian  people,  are  not  in  the  habit  of  chang- 
ing their  ways. 

Standing  upon  the  Belvedere  of  San  Martino,  we 
were  able  to  form  some  idea  of  the  great  width  of  the 
bay,  where  just  now  "  William's  yacht,"  as  one 
of  our  English  friends  always  calls  it,  is  riding  at 
anchor.  The  Kaiser  is  making  one  of  his  rapid,  semi- 
official, quite  friendly,  and  wholly  diplomatic  visits  to 
Rome,  and  his  yacht  awaits  him  here. 

March  4th. 

"We  have  spent  the  morning  at  the  National  Mu- 
seum, where  are  so  many  of  the  world-famous  sculp- 
tures, the  Hercules,  a  magnificent,  strong  figure  in 
perfect  repose,  a  giant  taking  his  ease,  and  the 
Farnese  Bull,  both  of  them  from  the  Baths  of  Cara- 
calla  in  Rome,  and  a  huge  bronze  horse  from  Her- 
culaneum.  Most  impressive  and  interesting  to  us  is 
the  statue  of  Diana  of  the  Ephesians,  against  whose 
worship  Paul  preached  at  Ephesus.  A  curious  statue 
is  this,  odd  enough  to  have  fallen  down  from  Jupiter, 
according  to  the  tradition,  or  from  any  other  heathen 
god !  The  torso  is  of  fine,  variegated  marble,  and  the 
head,  hands,  and  feet,  the  latter  slender  and  delicate, 
are  of  bronze.  This  Diana  is  not  a  huntress,  like  the 
Greek  Artemis  with  the  crescent  above  her  brow,  but 
bears  about  her  the  symbols  of  abundance.  We 

42 


CAPTURED    BY  A  CABMAN 


lingered  long  near  this  statue  of  the  great  goddess  of 
the  Ephesians,  marvelling  wherein  lay  the  secret  of 
her  power.  To  Demetrius  and  the  other  silversmiths 
who  made  her  shrines  she  was  valuable,  as  she  brought 
them  great  gain;  but  for  beauty  or  grace  there  was 
no  reason  why  this  Diana  should  have  been  wor- 
shipped by  "Asia  and  all  the  world." 

Among  the  bronzes  from  Pompeii  and  Herculaneum 
we  found  the  originals  of  many  of  the  exquisitely 
graceful  figures  with  wThich  we  are  all  familiar.  We 
greeted  as  old  friends  the  Dancing  Faun,  the  Mer- 
cury, the  Flying  Victory,  the  Wrestlers,  Silenus,  the 
Boy  with  the  Dolphin,  and,  above  all,  the  lovely  Narcis- 
sus, which  they  now  call  by  another  name.  Zelphine  and 
I  have  decided  that  we  will  never  acknowledge  this 
to  be  a  Dionysus  or  anything  less  poetic  than  the 
Narcissus.  This  charming,  youthful  figure  with  the 
bent  head  and  listening  ear  is  quite  small,  not  nearly 
life-size,  and  for  that  reason,  perhaps,  its  beauty  is 
more  delicate  and  spiritual.  If  that  little  figure  could 
speak,  what  could  it  not  tell  of  pomp,  luxury,  love, 
and  delight,  all  overtaken  and  overwhelmed  by  sudden 
destruction  in  the  buried  city  where  it  was  found! 

Now,  indeed,  if  it  were  in  my  power  to  rhyme  four 
lines  and  make  sense  at  the  same  time,  which  was  my 
school-girl  idea  of  poetry-making,  I  should  certainly 

43 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 


be  sending  you  a  poem  about  the  Narcissus ;  but  why 
cudgel  my  brains  when  Keats  has,  with  his  own  sym- 
pathetic charm,  told  the  pathetic  story  of  the  beauti- 
ful youth?— 

"  Who  gazed  into  the  stream's  deep  recess 
And  died  of  bis  own  dear  loveliness." 

On  our  way  home  from  the  museum  our  vetturino 
beat  his  horse  so  unmercifully,  although  the  poor  nag 
was  going  as  fast  as  a  horse  could  be  expected  to  go 
up  hill,  that  Zelphine  remonstrated  with  him,  very 
tactfully,  as  I  thought,  paying  his  sorry  Rosinante 
compliments  and  calling  the  wretched  beast  il  buono 
cavallo.  The  idea  of  any  one  feeling  compassion  for 
a  horse  evidently  touched  the  driver 's  sense  of  humor, 
and,  regarding  it  as  a  huge  joke,  he  laughed  and 
whipped  the  poor  animal  still  more  unmercifully, 
making  us  understand,  in  the  gibberish  of  French  and 
Italian  peculiar  to  the  cabmen  here,  that  there  was 
no  need  to  be  merciful  to  a  creature  without  a  soul. 
We  longed  for  greater  facility  in  some  language  that 
he  could  understand,  to  inquire  into  his  own  spirit- 
ual condition.  As,  however,  words  were  wanting,  we 
fell  to  wondering  wherein  such  a  being  as  this  differs 
from  the  beasts  of  the  field.  The  cabmen  of  Naples 
would  certainly  afford  our  friend  Dr.  C.  an  ad- 

44 


CAPTURED   BY  A  CABMAN 


ditional  argument  in  favor  of  his  pet  doctrine  of 
conditional  immortality. 

Our  driver's  attitude  toward  the  animal  creation  is, 
we  are  told,  that  of  most  Neapolitans.  Even  persons 
of  more  intelligence  question  the  advisability  of  car- 
ing for  the  comfort  of  dumb  creatures,  yet  these 
apparently  cruel  people  have  a  most  kindly  custom. 
If  parents  lose  a  child,  and  children  are  generally 
so  numerous  that  it  seems  as  if  one  could  scarcely  be 
missed,  they  adopt  an  orphan,  call  it  God's  child,  and 
treat  it  as  their  own. 

March  6th. 

We  have  been  wondering,  ever  since  we  came  here, 
where  the  beauty  and  fashion  of  Naples  are  to  be 
found,  having  seen  on  the  streets  only  tradespeople 
and  beggars.  We  put  the  question  to  our  friend  the 
concierge  at  the  Hotel  B.  At  five  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  he  told  us,  the  beau  monde  could  be  seen 
taking  an  airing  on  the  Chiaia,  never  earlier.  It 
seems  that  Neapolitans  of  quality  do  not  drive  while 
the  sun  is  shining.  You  remember  that  old  Italian 
proverb  about  only  dogs  and  Englishmen  liking  the 
sun?  To  this  I  would  add  the  wise  peasants,  with 
whom  its  genial  warmth  takes  the  place  of  food, 
fire,  and  proper  clothing. 

Five  o  'clock  on  a  March  afternoon  is  a  rather  chilly 
45 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 

and  uncomfortable  hour  for  a  drive;  but  we  should 
have  to  go  then  or  give  up  all  idea  of  a  fashionable 
promenade  en  voiture  with  the  elite  of  Naples.  This 
afternoon  was  the  time  arranged  for  our  drive.  A 
carrozza,  a  two-horse  carriage,  was  to  meet  us  at  a 
favorite  coral  shop  on  the  Chiaia,  whose  exquisite 
wares  draw  Angela  daily  with  a  glittering  eye.  Hav- 
ing arranged  with  Zelphine  about  this  rendezvous,  I 
left  her  hanging  over  some  Pompeian  statuettes  in  a 
shop  on  the  Toledo,  copies,  of  course,  but  very  good 
ones,  quite  too  tempting  to  be  safely  dallied  with,  and 
made  my  way  to  Thomas  Cook's  office  and  to  several 
glove  shops.  When  my  commissions  were  finished, 
I  had  more  than  an  hour  on  my  hands,  so  I  lingered 
for  some  time  before  the  tall  monument  in  the  Square 
of  the  Martyrs,  a  memorial  to  the  patriots  who  per- 
ished during  several  Neapolitan  revolutions.  This 
monument  has  much  of  the  simplicity  and  strength  of 
the  Nelson  memorial  on  Trafalgar  Square,  having  like 
it  four  colossal  bronze  lions  at  the  base.  The  noble 
shaft  is  surmounted  by  one  of  Caggiani's  graceful 
figures,  a  Victory  delicately  poised  as  if  on  tiptoe 
for  a  flight. 

After  gazing  long  at  the  beautiful  monument,  I 
strolled  down  the  Strada  Chiaia  to  the  esplanade  with 
the  statues  and  fountains,  a  charming  place  to  walk 

46 


CAPTURED    BY  A   CABMAN 


on  a  cool  afternoon.  You  know  my  fancy  for  wander- 
ing alone  through  strange  streets  and  byways.  On  and 
on  I  sauntered,  thinking  that  I  might  have  time  to 
walk  as  far  as  the  Aquarium  before  keeping  my  tryst 
at  the  coral  shop,  and  not  fully  realizing  how  deserted 
the  place  was  until  I  heard  a  penetrating  voice  quite 
close  to  me  speaking  rapid  and  almost  unintelligible 
French,  accompanied  by  the  cracking  of  a  whip.  "A 
cabman — I'll  pay  no  attention  to  him,"  I  said  to 
myself ;  "he '11  be  discouraged  after  a  while  and 
leave  me."  I  soon  found  that  I  had  reckoned  with- 
out my  host:  that  vociferous,  whip-cracking  Jehu 
followed  me,  dogged  my  steps,  offered  me  his  cab  at 
absurdly  low  rates,  and  finally  cornered  me  in  a  recess 
of  one  of  the  large  public  buildings.  I  looked  around ; 
there  was  not  a  person  in  sight  to  help  me,  only  a  few 
beggars  on  the  steps,  who  would  naturally  make  com- 
mon cause  with  the  cabman.  You  will  laugh  at  me,  I 
am  sure,  but  so  terrified  was  I  by  the  creature's 
language  and  gestures  and  whip-cracking  that  I 
abjectly  stepped  into  his  cab,  telling  him  to  drive  me 
for  an  hour  and  set  me  down  at  the  well-known  coral 
shop  on  the  Chiaia  at  five  o'clock,  showing  him  the 
time  on  my  watch-face.  Was  I  not  just  a  bit  like  the 
woman  who  married  a  persistent  suitor  in  order  to  get 
rid  of  him?  Her  troubles  probably  began  then  and 

47 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 


there ;  mine  certainly  did.  My  cocker,  with  an  irritat- 
ing expression  of  triumph  on  his  face,  set  forth  upon  a 
tour  of  sight-seeing  which  threatened  to  be  of  long 
duration.  We  passed  from  street  to  street,  from  build- 
ing to  building,  until  to  my  dismay  I  found  that  he  was 
driving  toward  the  upper  town.  I  protested,  knowing 
that  there  would  not  be  time  to  get  back  to  the  Chiaia 
by  five  o  'clock.  "Would  I  like  to  see  San  Martino  ?  No, 
I  answered,  with  decision,  I  had  already  been  to  San 
Martino ;  I  wished  to  go  back  to  the  Chiaia.  Then — 
for  astuteness  commend  me  to  a  Neapolitan  vetturino 
— that  irritating  creature  became  suddenly  deaf, 
dumb,  and  blind,  while  his  horse  went  on  and  on  up 
the  heights  toward  San  Martino.  Fortunately,  the 
road  winds  around  the  hill,  and  as  we  reached  one 
of  its  windings  I  saw,  by  a  sign,  that  we  were  on  the 
Strada  Vittorio  Emanuele.  Hope  revived  when  I  be- 
gan to  recognize  familiar  buildings;  we  would  soon 
reach  our  hotel.  "  Hotel  B. !  Albergo  B. !"  I  cried, 
with  so  much  insistence  and  with  gestures  so  like  his 
own  that  the  creature  finally  listened  to  me,  the  horse 
slackened  its  pace  slightly,  and  then,  oh  joy !  the  Hotel 
B.  appeared,  the  concierge  at  the  door.  I  called  to 
him,  he  made  a  peremptory  sign  to  the  driver  to  stop, 
and  I  was  once  again  a  free  woman,  standing  on  my 
two  feet,  with  solid  ground  beneath  them. 

48 


CAPTURED   BY  A  CABMAN 


My  Jehu  now  regained  the  use  of  his  tongue,  and 
unblushingly  insisted  upon  a  two  hours'  fee  for  the 
drive  of  a  trifle  over  an  hour  which  I  had  been  coerced 
into  taking.  The  sum  was  not  extortionate,  according 
to  American  ideas,  but  no  one  wishes  to  be  cheated, 
especially  with  one's  eyes  wide  open.  I  protested, 
explained  the  state  of  affairs  to  the  concierge,  when,  to 
my  surprise,  he,  my  ally  and  champion  as  I  had 
thought  him,  deserted  me  at  this  critical  moment  and 
joined  the  enemy,  saying,  "  The  signorina  would  do 
well  to  pay  the  vetturino  what  he  asks,  as  according 
to  the  signorina 's  own  watch  she  has  had  the  cab 
over  an  hour. ' ' 

My  humiliation  was  great  when  I  handed  the 
triumphant  cabman  his  ill-gotten  gains,  but  greater 
still  was  my  disappointment  over  the  defection  of  the 
concierge,  whom  we  have  all  trusted.  It  seems,  in- 
deed, as  if  every  man's  hand  is  against  us  in  this 
beautiful  city,  from  the  salesman  who  tries  to  sell  us 
imperfect  coral  to  the  crafty  vendor  of  fruit  who  slips 
bad  oranges  into  a  paper  bag  for  us,  while  he  tries  to 
distract  our  attention  by  sentimental  remarks  on  the 
weather  and  the  ' '  bella  vista. ' ' 

Rather  than  trust  myself  to  the  mercy  of  another 
cabman,  I  ignominiously  made  my  way  down  the 
many  steps  of  the  terrace  to  the  street  below,  where  I 
4  49 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 


took  a  tram  to  the  Chiaia.  Angela  was  seated  in 
the  carriage,  looking  around  anxiously,  while  Zelphine 
was  walking  up  and  down  the  pavement,  both  evi- 
dently much  disturbed,  wondering  what  had  detained 
me. 

"  There  is  still  time  to  take  the  drive,"  I  said,  in 
reply  to  their  eager  questions.  "  I  saw  a  number  of 
carriages  coming  down  by  the  Square  of  the  Martyrs. 
Get  in,  Zelphine,  and  I  will  explain  my  delay  as  we 
drive  along." 

All  Naples  seemed  to  be  en  voiture,  this  afternoon, 
and  it  was  pleasant  to  be  making  a  course  with  the 
languid,  dark-eyed  ladies  and  their  attendant  cava- 
liers, even  if  we  were  not  intimately  associated  with 
them. 

March  7th. 

This  whole  morning  we  spent  in  the  Aquarium, 
which  is  down  near  the  sea,  a  part  of  the  Villa  Na- 
zionale.  Here  we  saw  all  manner  of  beautiful  and 
hideous  creatures  of  the  deep,  some  exquisitely  colored 
fish  from  the  Mediterranean,  living  coral,  medusa?, 
crested  blubbers,  airy  and  transparent  as  soap-bubbles, 
and  the  wonderful  octopus.  Angela  insisted  on  see- 
ing these  horrible  creatures  fed,  and  by  the  time  that 
important  ceremony  was  over  and  we  had  walked 
through  the  shaded  park  enjoying  the  flowers,  which 

50 


CAPTURED    BY  A  CABMAN 


are  blooming  in  profusion  everywhere,  it  was  time  to 
go  home  for  our  second  breakfast. 

"We  went  to  Posilipo  in  the  steam  tram,  this  after- 
noon, and  were  shown  the  old  Roman  columbarium  on 
the  hillside,  popularly  known  as  the  Tomb  of  Virgil. 
Whether  or  not  the  poet  was  buried  there  is  now  dis- 
puted by  scholars ;  however,  Zelphine  says  that  Virgil 
certainly  wrote  his  "Georgics"  and  "^Eneid"  in  his 
villa  near  by,  and  that  Petrarch  considered  this  tomb 
sufficiently  important  to  plant  a  laurel  here.  She  and  I 
have  no  patience  with  the  iconoclasts  who  take  so  much 
pleasure  in  destroying  our  illusions,  and  we  see  no 
reason  why  the  traveller  should  not  be  allowed  to  weep 
over  this  tomb  of  Virgil,  unless,  indeed,  a  more  authen- 
tic one  can  be  furnished  him. 

Later  we  climbed  up  to  the  terraced  garden  that 
belongs  to  the  Ristorante  Promessi  Sposi — fancy  an 
inn  at  home  named  The  Betrothed!  Here  we  had 
afternoon  tea,  while  our  eyes  were  feasted  with  the 
beauties  of  a  gorgeous  sunset.  Vesuvius,  Capri,  Ischia, 
and  all  the  smaller  islands  of  the  bay  were  bathed  in 
heliotrope  light,  a  royal  array  of  purple  velvet. 
Buchanan  Read's  lines  on  the  Bay  of  Naples  must  have 
been  inspired  by  just  such  a  sea  and  sky  as  this.  Zel- 
phine evidently  had  the  same  thought,  for  she  quoted 
softly : 

51 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 

"  '  My  soul  to-day 

Is  far  away, 

Sailing  the  Vesuvian  Bay; 
My  winged  boat, 
A  bird  afloat, 
Swims  round  the  purple  peaks  remote.' " 

We  should  have  been  in  a  boat  on  the  purple  bay 
instead  of  in  a  tram ! 

I  am  finishing  this  letter  rather  hurriedly  for  to- 
night's mail,  as  we  shall  be  off  to-morrow  bright  and 
early  for  a  tour  of  several  days,  to  Pompeii,  La  Cava, 
and  Psestum,  returning  by  the  coast  drive  and  stop- 
ping at  Amalfi  and  Sorrento.  It  is  the  sort  of  excur- 
sion that  you  would  enjoy  so  much — would  you  like  to 
be  of  the  party  ? 


52 


IV 

AN   EXCITING   DRIVE 


CAVA  DEI  TIRREXI,  March  8th. 

WE  have  spent  the  day  in  the  streets  and  houses 
of  Pompeii,  living  over  again  in  the  buried  city  the 
thrilling  scenes  of  Lord  Lytton  's  novel.  His  descrip- 
tions are  still  marvellously  accurate,  although  so 
much  has  been  unearthed  since  he  wrote  "  The  Last 
Days  of  Pompeii  ' '  that  the  ruins  as  they  stand  to-day 
are  much  more  extensive  than  those  pictured  by  the 
novelist.  The  house  of  Glaucus  is  called  by  the  guides 
the  House  of  the  Tragic  Poet,  but  the  mosaic  of  the 
dog,  with  its  inscription,  "  Cave  canem, "  apparently 
as  perfect  as  in  the  days  when  Glaucus  thus  whimsi- 
cally greeted  his  friends  and  enemies,  serves  to 
identify  it. 

Lord  Lytton  was  in  Naples  during  the  winter  of 
the  most  important  excavations  at  Pompeii,  and  his 
romance  doubtless  took  form  and  shape  as  he  walked 
through  these  deserted  streets,  where  the  ruts  made  by 
the  chariot- wheels  of  the  two  rivals,  Glaucus  and 
Arbaces,  are  still  to  be  seen.  The  houses,  as  he  tells 

53 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 


us,  still  nndespoiled  of  their  exquisite  decorations  and 
.rich  furniture,  were  much  as  their  unfortunate  owners 
left  them.  Even  now,  despite  the  fact  that  many  of 
the  beautiful  frescoes,  statues,  busts,  and  other  orna- 
ments have  been  taken  to  the  Naples  Museum,  much 
is  still  left  of  the  interior  of  the  houses,  enough  to 
give  one  a  very  good  idea  of  how  these  luxurious 
Pompeians  lived.  The  lower  floors  of  some  of  these 
houses,  as  that  of  the  Vettii  and  the  Faun,  are  com- 
plete, with  their  vestibule,  dining-room,  parlor,  bed- 
rooms, and  kitchen.  These  rooms  are  all  rather  small, 
according  to  our  ideas,  as  the  wise  Pompeians  lived 
out  of  doors,  spending  their  days  in  the  large  central 
court  of  their  houses  or  in  the  gardens.  Of  the  gar- 
dens we  saw  the  most  perfect  examples  in  the  house 
of  the  Vettii.  The  restoration  seems  to  have  been  made 
most  carefully  here  as  elsewhere;  even  the  graceful 
bronze  statuettes  are  not  wanting,  as  excellent  replicas 
have  been  put  in  the  places  of  the  originals,  which  are 
in  the  Naples  Museum. 

Nothing  brings  the  reality  of  that  old  life  before  us 
more  forcibly  than  to  walk  along  the  streets,  where 
the  bakeries  and  the  wine  and  oil  shops  are  still  to  be 
found.  In  the  latter  are  many  great  jars,  which  are,  as 
Zelphine  says,  not  unlike  those  in  which  Morgiana 
entrapped  her  Forty  Thieves. 

54 


AN   EXCITING   DRIVE 


Turning  a  corner,  we  were  startled  by  seeing  a 
roughly  drawn  sketch  upon  a  wall,  such  as  any  street 
gamin  of  to-day  might  draw  upon  a  tempting  blank 
surface.  Further  along  the  same  street  we  beheld  a 
still  stronger  evidence  that  the  life  of  Pompeii  was 
not  altogether  different  from  that  of  our  own  time. 
Something  corresponding  to  a  modern  poster  an- 
nounced in  red  letters  the  name  of  a  favorite  candidate 
for  the  next  municipal  election.  We  lingered  long  in 
the  vast  amphitheatre,  in  which  the  Pompeians  were 
wont  to  take  their  pleasure,  protected  in  sunny  weather 
by  an  awning,  whose  usefulness  we  could  appreciate 
to-day,  as  the  sun  of  March  is  intensely  hot  in  this 
region.  The  barracks  for  the  gladiators,  near  the 
theatre,  are  not  unlike  the  casemates  for  soldiers  in 
a  fort,  and  are  quite  complete.  Zelphine,  who  is 
sitting  near  me,  poring  over  Bulwer's  novel,  has  just 
read  me  Pansa's  lament  over  what  he  considered  an 
infamous  law,  that  forbade  a  man  to  send  his  own 
slaves  to  the  wild  beasts  in  the  arena.  Having  seen 
the  houses  of  Glaucus  and  Pansa,  one  can  more  readily 
understand  the  point  of  view  of  these  luxurious, 
pleasure-loving  ancients,  who  were  probably  not  more 
cruel  than  many  of  their  contemporaries. 

"We  left  Pompeii  late  this  afternoon  and  came  to 
La  Cava,  a  pretty  town  in  the  mountains,  where  we 

55 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 


are  stopping  on  our  way  to  Piestum.  Zelphine  has  just 
been  talking  to  the  padrone,  who  speaks  excellent  Eng- 
lish, about  the  excursion  to-morrow.  Our  tickets, 
which  we  bought  of  the  concierge  at  the  Hotel  B., 
entitle  us  to  a  drive  or  a  railway  journey.  The 
padrone  strongly  advises  the  former.  He  says  the 
trains  are  so  slow  and  the  waits  so  long  that  we  make 
almost  as  good  time  by  driving,  and  then  it  is  much 
more  interesting.  The  drive  is  between  forty  and 
fifty  miles,  but  by  starting  at  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  changing  horses  at  Battipaglia,  we  shall 
have  two  hours  at  Pa?stum  and  get  back  to  this  hotel 
in  time  for  dinner.  Another  party  of  American 
travellers,  of  the  inconvenient  number  of  five,  go  by 
coach  to-morrow.  The  padrone  asks  us,  in  case  we 
decide  to  drive,  whether  we  will  give  a  seat  in  our 
carriage  to  the  odd  number.  Having  concluded  to 
drive,  we  are  hoping  that  the  fifth  wheel  of  the  other 
coaching-party  may  prove  to  be  Mrs.  Coxe,  a  charming 
old  lady  who  talks  most  picturesquely  of  a  drive  to 
Pgestum  forty  years  ago,  when  the  roads  were  so  in- 
fested by  brigands  that  it  was  necessary  to  travel  with 
a  mounted  escort. 

' '  Could  anything  be  more  delightfully  romantic  ? ' ' 
exclaims  Zelphine,  on  hearing  this. 

' '  Or  more  horridly  uncomfortable  ?  ' '  adds  Angela. 
56 


AN   EXCITING    DRIVE 


These  exclamations  drew  from  Mrs.  Coxe  a  detailed 
and  spirited  recital  of  her  adventures,  which  Zelphine 
heard  with  the  great  wide-open  eyes  of  a  child  listen- 
ing to  a  fairy-tale.  Women  of  Mrs.  Coxe 's  age  delight 
in  a  sympathetic  listener.  The  members  of  her  own 
party  have  doubtless  heard  all  of  her  conies  de  voyage. 
She  will  certainly  elect  to  go  with  us,  and  have  the 
advantage  of  a  new  and  appreciative  audience. 

March  9th. 

I  opened  my  windows  this  morning  and  stepped  out 
on  the  marble  terrace  to  enjoy  a  view  of  the  mountains, 
which  had  looked  so  enchanting  by  moonlight  and  were 
no  less  beautiful  by  day.  In  the  garden  below  a  blue 
gown  flitting  about  among  the  orange-trees  attracted 
my  attention.  Angela  had  evidently  brought  her 
charms  to  bear  upon  the  heart  of  the  padrone,  as  I 
heard  him  say,  "  Here  are  scissors  for  the  signorina 
to  cut  all  the  oranges  she  wishes.  In  the  signorina 's 
own  country  the  oranges  do  not  grow  up  to  the  door- 
step as  with  us.  Is  it  not  so  ? " 

"  Xo,  indeed,"  said  Angela,  deftly  snipping  off  a 
golden  ball.  "  This  is  a  great  pleasure.  I  never  cut 
an  orange  from  a  tree  but  once  in  my  life,  and  that 
was  in  Granada. ' ' 

Being  possessed  of  an  inquiring  turn  of  mind,  the 
57 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 


padrone  asked  many  questions  concerning  Granada, 
and  so  talking  and  working  industriously  Angela  soon 
collected  a  fine  dish  of  oranges  for  our  breakfast — an 
unwonted  luxury,  as  in  this  land  of  abundance  they 
never  give  us  fruit  for  our  early  dejeuner.  The  car- 
riages were  at  the  door  before  we  had  finished  our 
breakfast,  and  in  ours,  as  though  in  answer  to  our 
desires,  sat  Mrs.  Coxe,  provided  with  a  guide-book, 
lorgnette,  lunch,  and  all  the  equipment  of  a  good 
traveller  for  a  long  day's  drive. 

The  proprietor  announced  that  he  would  accompany 
us  as  far  as  Salerno,  occupying  the  seat  on  the  box 
beside  the  driver  and  his  little  brother.  Mrs.  Coxe 
evidently  considered  this  her  opportunity  for  inform- 
ing herself  with  regard  to  the  country,  its  inhabitants, 
and  its  productions.  She  had  added  not  a  little  to 
her  already  large  store  of  information,  gained  in  many 
lands,  when  the  padrone,  to  our  great  regret,  left  us, 
with  many  bows,  smiles,  and  wishes  for  a  "  bel  giro." 

We  had  the  very  tip-top  of  the  morning  for  the 
beginning  of  our  drive,  as  we  set  forth  at  eight  o  'clock. 
The  air  is  soft  and  clear  like  that  of  a  May  day  at 
home.  We  can  scarcely  believe  that  it  is  March,  and 
that  our  friends  across  the  water  are  still  in  the  grasp 
of  winter,  as  we  left  all  that  behind  us  when  we  sailed 
from  New  York  six  weeks  ago. 

58 


i 


ON  THE  ROAD  TO   PAESTUM 


AN   EXCITING   DRIVE 


Our  way  lay  between  green  meadows  dotted  with 
purple  cyclamen  and  a  small  yellow  flower  much  like 
the  English  primrose,  and  in  some  places  through 
groves  of  orange-trees  covered  with  golden  fruit. 

Fortunately  for  those  who  take  this  long  drive,  the 
roads  are  excellent.  We  drove  slowly  through  the  old 
town  of  Cava,  with  its  narrow,  precipitous  streets,  and 
through  Salerno,  which  is  upon  a  bluff  overlooking  the 
bay,  and  commands  a  noble  panorama  of  sea  and 
shore.  When,  however,  we  reached  the  plain,  our 
horses  set  forth  at  a  brisk  pace.  There  was  not  much 
to  be  seen  here  except  acres  of  fennel,  artichoke,  and 
a  bean,  now  covered  with  white  blossoms,  which  I 
believe  is  used  chiefly  for  feeding  the  cattle.  Even 
this  road  through  a  flat  country  is  not  without  a  touch 
of  picturesqueness,  as  it  is  in  many  places  bordered 
by  gnarled  sycamores  twisted  into  the  most  weird  and 
grotesque  shapes.  Between  these  trees  a  peasant 
woman  was  walking,  bearing  upon  her  head  an  im- 
mense brush-heap,  which  was  probably  her  winter 
firewood.  Zelphine  and  Angela  had  their  kodaks  with 
them,  of  course,  and  begged  the  driver  to  stop  and 
allow  them  to  get  a  snap-shot,  which  he  did,  crying  out, 
"  Ecco,  ecco,  signora!"  The  woman  stopped  obedi- 
ently, and  stood  like  a  statue,  in  a  natural  pose  full 
of  grace  and  strength.  She  was  evidently  pleased  to 

59 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 

have  her  picture  taken,  as  these  peasants  always  are, 
especially  if  a  few  soldi  are  thrown  in  to  seal  the  con- 
tract. If  the  picture  is  good  you  shall  have  one,  as 
it  will  give  you  a  characteristic  bit  of  this  Southern 
Italian  life. 

Here  women  young  and  old  are  to  be  seen  working 
in  the  fields  with  the  men,  driving  ox-carts,  walking 
beside  them,  and  bearing  burdens  that  seem  far  too 
heavy  for  any  woman 's  shoulders.  Although  the  land 
seems  fertile,  the  people  are  evidently  very  poor,  the 
villages  small,  and  the  houses  comfortless. 

We  should  have  liked  to  ask  the  driver  some  ques- 
tions about  the  products  of  the  soil,  the  peasants,  and 
their  lives,  but  neither  he  nor  his  little  brother,  who 
was  on  the  box  beside  him,  adapted  themselves  grace- 
fully to  the  restrictions  of  our  vocabulary — there  is, 
we  find,  a  great  difference  in  drivers  in  this  respect. 
At  Battipaglia,  a  railroad  station  and  the  most  con- 
siderable town  on  the  route,  we  changed  horses  and 
drivers  also.  This  latter  substitution  we  found  was  to 
our  advantage,  as  the  second  vetturino  proved  to  be 
a  better  linguist  than  his  predecessor,  which  enabled  us 
to  continue  our  interrupted  studies  in  agriculture  and 
political  economy.  The  new  driver  was  serviceable 
also  in  other  respects.  When  we  came  upon  a  field  of 
narcissus,  he  stopped  the  carriage  in  order  to  allow  us 

60 


AN   EXCITING    DRIVE 


the  pleasure  of  gathering  the  fragrant  blossoms,  be- 
sides bringing  us  handfuls  of  flowers,  the  largest 
bunch  of  course  being  laid  at  Angela's  feet.  We  are 
quite  sure  that  he  considers  her  the  living  image  of  the 
pictures  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  although  he  is  too  dis- 
creet to  say  so. 

Angela  was  charming  to-day,  in  a  blue  suit  and  a 
white  shirt-waist,  but  the  March  sun  was  so  hot  that 
by  the  time  we  reached  Passtum  it  had  taken  all  the 
color  out  of  the  crown  of  her  pretty  blue  hat. 

As  there  is  no  inn  at  Paestum  we  ate  our  luncheon 
by  the  roadside,  stopping  under  the  shade  of  a  tree 
where  a  peasant  was  enjoying  his  siesta,  his  oxen 
being  tethered  near  by.  Zelphine  is  enthusiastic  over 
the  beauty  of  these  gentle  creatures,  with  their  soft, 
kindly  brown  eyes,  and  says  that  she  is  sure  that 
Homer,  when  he  wrote  of  his  ox-eyed  maidens,  had 
just  such  a  one  in  mind  as  she  was  feeding  from  her 
hand.  She  made  so  pretty  a  picture  as  she  stood 
beside  the  great  white  ox,  feeding  him  daintily  with 
bean-blossoms,  that  Angela  tried  to  get  a  snap-shot 
of  her,  but  that  provoking  ox — the  slowest  of  all 
animals — took  it  into  his  head  to  move  at  the  critical 
moment. 

The  country  seemed  more  level  and  marshy  as  we 
drew  near  Pastum,  although  on  the  left  there  rose  the 

61 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


spur  of  a  mountain  range,  on  one  of  whose  heights  are 
the  ruins  of  the  hillside  fortress  of  Capaccio  Vecchio. 
This  town  was  founded  by  the  inhabitants  of  Pcestum 
when  they  were  driven  from  their  city  by  the  Saracens 
in  the  ninth  century. 

To  our  surprise,  we  saw  herds  of  buffalo  grazing  in 
the  fields,  much  smaller  and  different  in  other  re- 
spects from  the  American  bison.  Our  driver  told  us 
that  this  small  black  buffalo  is  to  be  found  near  the 
coast  in  many  parts  of  Italy,  and  is  often  seen  on  the 
Campagna  near  Rome.  From  the  number  of  calves 
in  some  of  the  fields  we  are  inclined  to  think  that  the 
young  buffaloes  are  used  for  food.  I  noticed  several 
of  the  well-grown  animals  drawing  carts,  sometimes 
harnessed  writh  the  white  oxen. 

We  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  old  wall  and  gate  with 
the  sea  beyond,  and  then  in  a  moment  the  temples 
were  in  full  view.  Nothing  could  be  more  impressive 
than  those  magnificent  ruins  on  that  lonely  plain, 
sharply  outlined  against  the  blue  sky.  The  Temple 
of  Neptune,  with  its  thirty-six  fluted  Doric  columns, 
its  double  columns  inside,  and  its  noble,  almost  per- 
fect fagade,  is  a  superb  example  of  Greek  architecture 
of  the  fifth  century  B.C.  The  stone  of  which  the 
temple  is  built  is  a  kind  of  travertine,  to  which  the 
passing  years  have  imparted  a  creamy,  mellow  tone. 

62 


AN   EXCITING   DRIVE 


The  Temple  of  Ceres  is  less  complete  than  that 
dedicated  to  Neptune,  although  it  belongs  to  the  same 
period.  The  gate  of  the  town  opening  out  toward  the 
sea  and  the  old  wall  adjoining  it  are  wonderfully 
preserved.  These  with  the  temples  of  Neptune  and 
Ceres  and  the  so-called  Basilica  are  all  that  remain  of 
this  settlement  made  by  Greeks  from  Sybaris  about 
600  B.C.  Two  days  we  have  passed  with  the  ancients, 
yesterday  in  a  city  where  "  the  earth,  with  faithful 
watch,  has  hoarded  all,"  and  to-day  in  a  town  not 
much  older  than  Pompeii,  where  the  conquering  Sara- 
cens and  Normans  and  the  devastating  elements  have 
left  nothing  to  tell  the  tale  of  the  daily  life  and  habits 
of  the  Greeks  who  made  their  home  upon  these  shores. 

We  climbed  over  the  ruins  of  the  old  temples  and  sat 
upon  the  town  wall  overlooking  the  sea,  while  Angela 
made  a  fairly  good  sketch  of  the  temples.  Zelphine 
and  I  bought  coins  and  pottery  from  children  who, 
being  without  visible  habitation,  seemed  to  have  liter- 
ally sprung  from  the  soil.  Finally  our  vetturino 
warned  us  that  we  had  better  set  forth  at  once  if  we 
wished  to  reach  Cava  before  nightfall. 

At  Battipaglia  we  resumed  our  former  horses  and 
driver.  Zelphine  whispered  something  to  me  about 
his  face  being  rather  red.  I  quite  agreed  with  her, 
but  as  the  mention  of  the  fact  could  not  be  of  any 

63 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 

especial  advantage,  the  other  carriage  being  already 
far  in  advance  and  no  person  at  hand  to  take  the 
reins,  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  set  forth  on  our 
homeward  journey,  despite  some  misgivings  upon 
Zelphine's  part  and  mine. 

We  had  not  left  Battipaglia  before  I  realized  that 
our  gravest  fears  were  fulfilled.  Our  driver  was  what 
you  men  picturesquely  call  "  gloriously  drunk  " — we 
practical  women  would  use  a  less  dignified  adverb. 
He  was  as  happy  as  a  lord,  cracking  his  whip  and 
dashing  through  the  streets  of  Battipaglia  in  fine 
style.  We  soon  passed  the  other  coach,  containing 
Mrs.  Coxe's  friends.  They  called  after  us,  but  must 
have  seen  that  we  had  no  time  for  conversation 
en  route;  indeed,  like  Cowper's  citizen  "  of  credit 
and  renown, ' '  we  passed  everything  on  the  road.  Zel- 
phine  and  I  were  on  the  front  seat,  facing  Mrs.  Coxe 
and  Angela.  They,  happily,  did  not  grasp  the  situa- 
tion at  once,  but  when  they  did  the  terror  written  on 
that  dear  old  lady's  face  was  something  never  to  be 
forgotten.  Angela,  with  resolute  cheerfulness,  chatted 
away  about  anything  and  everything,  especially  about 
Mrs.  Coxe 's  experiences  in  Honolulu,  her  favorite  sub- 
ject of  conversation.  I  shall  never  hear  of  that  island 
kingdom  of  the  Pacific  without  seeing  before  me 
Mrs.  Coxe's  agonized  face. 

64 


AN   EXCITING   DRIVE 


Remembering  that  there  lay  before  us  a  long 
stretch  of  road  overhanging  a  sharp  declivity,  Zel- 
phine  and  I  made  a  desperate  attempt  to  stop  our 
hilarious  vetturino  in  his  mad  career.  Finding  that 
our  remonstrances  excited  him  to  more  strenuous 
exertions,  Zelphine  tried  the  effect  of  her  few  avail- 
able words  and  many  eloquent  gestures  upon  the  small 
boy,  urging  him  to  make  his  brother  drive  more  care- 
fully, telling  him  that  the  old  lady  of  the  party  was 
very  much  alarmed,  and  advising  him  to  get  the  whip 
into  his  own  hands.  This,  however,  proved  to  be  im- 
possible ;  the  boy,  well  frightened  himself  by  this  time, 
only  succeeded  in  getting  hard  words  and  a  shaking. 
Give  up  his  whip !  Not  he.  As  well  ask  a  soldier  to 
lay  down  his  arms.  The  whip  was  his  pride  and  joy, 
his  piece  de  resistance,  so  to  speak,  with  which  he 
awoke  the  echoes  of  these  slumbering  old  Italian 
towns,  bringing  the  inhabitants,  men,  women,  children, 
cats,  dogs,  and  chickens,  to  the  sidewalk  to  witness  our 
rapid  transit.  Even  those  among  our  own  country- 
men who  pride  themselves  most  upon  their  skill  in 
annihilating  space  could  not  have  made  better  time 
than  we  did  as  we  rattled  over  that  Calabrian  high- 
way. Fortunately,  the  horses  were  well-trained  and 
steady  enough  to  balance  the  driver's  eccentricities. 
Perhaps  they  were  accustomed  to  them  by  long  experi- 
5  65 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 

ence.  Be  this  as  it  may,  \ve  proceeded  on  our  way 
without  any  accident,  passing  the  dangerous  part  of 
the  road  before  darkness  overtook  us. 

We  clattered  through  Salerno  at  a  tearing  gallop, 
and  as  we  neared  La  Cava  the  whip-cracking  was 
resumed  with  renewed  vigor,  bringing  the  citizens 
to  their  doors  and  windows.  Some  of  them,  indeed, 
followed  the  carriage,  crying  out,  "  Prima  donna! 
Prima  donna  ! ' ' 

"  What  can  they  mean?"  asked  Mrs.  Coxe,  look- 
ing as  though  she  expected  to  be  attacked  by  a  furious 
mob.  Zelphine  reminded  her  that  as  we  drove  by  the 
theatre  in  the  morning  we  had  noticed  a  poster  an- 
nouncing that  a  grand  opera  was  to  be  given  in  Cava 
that  evening.  In  our  gay  morning  spirits  we  had 
even  thought  that  it  might  be  pleasant  to  assist  at  the 
function.  Now  the  most  that  we  dared  to  hope  was 
that  we  might  reach  the  hotel  in  safety.  Troops  of 
children  ran  after  us,  repeating  the  shout  of  "  Prima 
donna!  Prima  donna!" 

"  We  are  honored  by  being  mistaken  for  a  part  of 
the  opera  troupe,"  said  Zelphine,  laughing,  "  and 
Angela  is  evidently  the  leading  lady,  as  they  are  all 
looking  at  her." 

Angela,  sitting  erect  on  the  back  seat,  her  costume 
as  crisp  and  immaculate  as  if  she  were  on  her  way  to 

66 


AN   EXCITING   DRIVE 


a  horse-show,  her  jaunty  hat  at  the  most  stylish  angle 
even  if  the  crown  was  off  color,  looked  indeed  like  a 
leading  lady,  albeit  a  trifle  pale  and  in  need  of  the  aid 
of  the  rouge-pot  of  the  greenroom. 

When  we  reached  our  hotel  we  were  all  exhausted 
by  the  fatigue  of  the  day  and  the  long  strain  of  the 
afternoon;  but  Mrs.  Coxe  showed  herself  the  thor- 
ough-going traveller  that  she  is  by  stopping  not  for 
rest  or  refreshment  until  she  had  laid  a  detailed 
account  of  our  experiences  before  the  proprietor. 

He  came  to  us  later,  after  a  visit  to  the  driver's 
home,  and  reported  him  as  covered  with  confusion  and 
filled  with  remorse.  "  Ecco,  ecco,  he  is  the  penitent 
one  now!"  exclaimed  the  padrone.  "  His  parents 
have  scolded  him  soundly,  and  have  threatened  to 
beat  him  with  a  stick.  He  is  in  tears,  the  sorrowful 
one!  It  is  the  first  time,  and  it  will  never  happen 
again ! ' ' 

"All  of  which  would  not  mend  our  bones  if  they 
had  been  broken ! ' '  said  Mrs.  Coxe,  stoutly.  ' '  It  is 
your  duty  to  give  your  patrons  good,  safe  drivers." 

The  padrone  then  called  upon  the  saints  to  witness 
to  the  fact  that  he  had  never  known  an  accident  to 
befall  any  of  his  patrons,  repeating  that  this  was 
Antonio's  first  offence,  and  that  he  must  have  been 
drinking  some  bad  stuff  at  the  tavern,  as  good  wine 

67 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 


would  never  so  set  the  brain  on  fire.  The  proprietor 
has  a  frank  manner  that  gives  one  the  impression  that 
he  is  speaking  the  truth;  we  are  inclined  to  believe 
him,  although  we  have  been  warned  not  to  allow  our- 
selves to  be  deceived  by  appearances  in  this  land  of 
ready  eloquence.  Our  valiant  countrywoman  having 
made  her  protest  for  the  party,  and  this  disagreeable 
duty  having  been  taken  off  our  shoulders,  we  went 
into  dinner  with  high  spirits  and  famous  appetites. 

Zelphine  and  I  are  so  wide  awake  after  our  exciting 
drive  that  we  are  devoting  the  evening  to  letter-writ- 
ing, both  of  us  being  sadly  in  arrears.  The  other 
guests  of  the  Hotel  S.  have  betaken  themselves  to 
their  slumbers,  and  we  enjoy  undisturbed  possession 
of  the  only  warm  room  in  the  house.  A  wood  fire  blazes 
on  the  hearth,  and  as  we  bask  in  its  genial  warmth  we 
shiver  at  the  thought  of  our  rooms  upstairs,  which, 
with  their  stone  floors,  are  of  about  the  temperature 
of  refrigerators. 

SORRENTO,  March  llth. 

We  left  Cava  on  Wednesday,  and  made  the  tour 
from  there  to  Amalfi  in  the  brilliant  morning  sun- 
shine. This  is  another  "  Cornice  Drive,"  and  far 
finer,  I  think,  than  that  along  the  Riviera.  The  road 
winds  above,  beneath,  and  beside  rugged  cliffs  of 
great  height,  always  with  the  sea  in  full  view.  Often 

68 


AN   EXCITING 


from  airy  summits  we  looked  down  upon  fishing 
villages  and  towns  built  around  bays  and  inlets, 
as  Cetara  and  Atrani,  while  upon  projecting  head- 
lands are  many  watch-towers,  now  used  chiefly  as 
dwellings. 

We  needed  not  to  be  told  that  the  making  of  mac- 
aroni is  one  of  the  chief  industries  of  Amalfi.  As  we 
drew  near  the  town  many  yards  of  it  were  to  be  seen 
hanging  upon  lines  like  a  wash  or  spread  upon  the 
grass  to  dry. 

Amalfi  is  charmingly  situated  at  the  entrance  to  a 
deep  ravine,  surrounded  by  mountains  and  rocks 
of  the  most  picturesque  forms.  We  climbed  up  the 
sixty  steps  of  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Andrew.  Mrs. 
Coxe  and  some  of  her  party  were  carried  up  in  chairs 
by  two  stout  Calabrians,  but  we  preferred  to  walk, 
turning  every  now  and  then  to  gaze  upon  the  enchant- 
ing view  spread  before  us.  At  the  top  of  the  slope  is 
a  spacious  garden  terrace  full  of  flowers,  with  roses 
climbing  all  over  its  walls. 

We  stopped  overnight  at  the  old  Capuchin  monas- 
tery, which  is  now  fitted  up  as  a  hotel,  and  yesterday 
drove  here,  the  greater  part  of  the  way  beside  ter- 
races of  lemon-trees  covered  with  ripening  fruit — 
enough  lemons  to  make  lemonade  for  the  whole  world, 
one  would  think.  As  we  drew  near  Sorrento  orange- 

69 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 

trees  took  the  place  of  lemon-trees,  groves  and  groves 
of  them,  with  their  dark,  shining  leaves  and  brilliantly 
colored  fruit.  Peasants  brought  oranges  to  the  car- 
riage for  sale,  clusters  of  them,  with  fruit  and  blos- 
soms growing  together,  which  they  were  glad  to  give 
us  for  a  few  soldi. 

This  morning  we  spent  in  the  shops  buying  wood- 
carvings  and  silk,  which  is  made  here,  and  is  conse- 
quently astonishingly  cheap.  "We  found  Mr.  Craw- 
ford 's  charming  villa,  and,  to  Zelphine  's  great  delight, 
the  house  of  Tasso's  sister  on  the  Strada  San  Nicola. 
Tasso's  birthplace  and  the  rock  upon  which  the  house 
stood  have  both  been  swallowed  up  by  the  sea ;  but  the 
house  of  his  sister  Cornelia,  to  which  the  great  Tasso 
came  in  1592  disguised  as  a  shepherd,  is  still  stand- 
ing, and  there  is  a  statue  of  Torquato  Tasso  in  the 
chief  square  of  Sorrento. 

I  am  writing  on  a  fine  terrace  overlooking  the  sea, 
where  stone  benches  and  tables  are  conveniently 
arranged  for  our  use.  The  sun  is  like  that  of  June, 
and  roses  such  as  belong  to  that  month  are  blooming 
all  over  the  wall  beside  me.  The  concierge  has  just 
brought  me  a  handful  of  them,  charming  pink  and 
white  ones.  "We  are  equipped  for  a  drive  to  the 
Deserto,  which  Mrs.  Coxe,  who  visited  the  place  forty 
years  ago,  tells  us  is  most  interesting.  Within  a  few 

70 


AN   EXCITING   DRIVE 


years  the  monastery  has  been  suppressed,  and  the 
building  is  now  used  as  a  home  for  destitute  children. 
We  should  like  to  spend  a  week  in  Sorrento,  which 
is  so  beautiful  itself  and  from  which  so  many  excur- 
sions are  to  be  made;  but  Capri  beckons  to  us  from 
across  the  bay  and  our  tune  is  limited,  as  Zelphine  has 
promised  to  meet  some  cousins  in  Naples. 

CAPRI,  March  13th. 

Our  reception  on  the  island  of  the  Blue  Grotto  was 
sufficiently  novel  to  please  the  most  blase  traveller. 
As  our  boat  drew  near  the  rocky  shore  dozens  of 
women,  most  of  them  young  and  handsome,  hurried 
down  to  the  wharf  and  seized  our  luggage,  which  they 
bore  on  their  heads  easily  and  lightly  up  the  steep 
path  to  the  hotel.  It  seemed  strange  enough  to  have 
women  carry  our  dress-suit-cases  and  bags,  but  on  our 
way  to  the  hotel  we  saw  a  much  more  unusual  sight 
— three  women  carrying  two  trunks  and  a  valise,  while 
a  man,  evidently  the  owner  of  the  trunks,  was  walk- 
ing quite  at  his  ease  beside  them.  He  was,  we  were 
told  later,  a  Caprian  peasant  on  his  way  to  America, 
and  this  delicate  attention  was  a  final  act  of  devotion 
on  the  part  of  his  Amazonian  countrywomen. 

Capri  has  not  been  as  kind  to  us  as  other  towns  of 
Southern  Italy.  The  mountains  have  had  their  heads 

71 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 


buried  in  clouds  all  the  morning,  and  when  the 
donkeys  arrived  which  we  had  ordered  for  a  ride  up  to 
the  Villa  of  Tiberius,  a  fine  rain  was  falling,  which 
prevented  us  from  making  the  excursion.  We  sent 
the  donkeys  and  their  women  drivers  home,  much  to 
the  disappointment  of  the  latter. 

' '  Women  seem  to  do  everything  here ! ' '  said  Angela. 
"  Where  are  the  men?" 

"  Gone  to  America,"  replied  Mrs.  Coxe,  quickly. 
"  The  women  ship  them  off,  bag  and  baggage,  and 
then  have  everything  their  own  way. ' ' 

Fortune  favored  us  later  in  the  day,  as  the  clouds 
rolled  off  the  mountains  before  noon,  and  the  padrone 
informed  us  that  the  wind  was  in  the  right  quarter 
for  a  visit  to  the  Blue  Grotto.  We  made  our  expedi- 
tion satisfactorily,  although  the  sea  was  high  and  we 
literally  rode  the  waves  in  our  small  boats.  The 
grotto  is  quite  as  blue  as  any  picture  of  it  that  I  have 
ever  seen,  and  with  an  exquisite,  luminous  transpar- 
ency that  no  brush  or  pencil  can  portray.  When  we 
were  in  the  midst  of  the  silvery  blueness,  watching 
with  some  apprehension  a  small  boy  who  dives  into  the 
water  to  show  off  its  wonderful  color,  our  boatman 
suddenly  became  loquacious,  and  told  us  thrilling  tales 
of  unfortunate  visitors  to  the  grotto  who  had  been 
walled  in  by  the  sea  and  were  obliged  to  spend  days 

72 


AN   EXCITING   DRIVE 


and  even  weeks  in  this  drear  abode,  living  upon  sup- 
plies which  daring  sailors,  who  contrived  to  get  their 
boats  near  to  the  mouth  of  the  grotto,  handed  in  to 
them.  The  smallness  of  the  opening  of  the  grotto  gave 
a  semblance  of  reality  to  these  Miinchausen  tales. 
Mrs.  Coxe,  who  was  in  the  boat  with  me,  became 
very  much  alarmed  and  insisted  upon  leaving 
at  once,  calling  to  the  other  members  of  the  party 
to  follow.  We  were  splashed  a  little  by  the  spray 
as  we  emerged  from  the  grotto,  and  those  in  the 
other  boats  were  quite  wet;  but  as  we  rowed  away 
the  mouth  of  the  fairy  cave  was  almost  hidden  by  the 
waves.  It  seemed  indeed  as  if  there  might  be  a  grain 
of  truth  in  the  boatman's  tales,  which  the  padrone 
corroborated,  adding,  "  But  it  does  not  often  happen 
that  travellers  are  shut  up  for  any  time  in  the  Grotta 
Azzurra ;  we  are  very  careful. "  "  Not  very  often 
indeed !  As  if  once  would  not  be  enough ! ' '  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Coxe,  who  had  interrogated  the  padrone  after  her 
straightforward  fashion  of  getting  at  the  truth  of  the 
matter. 

HOTEL  B.,  NAPLES,  March  15th. 

"We  are  glad  to  be  in  Naples  again,  and  in  this  home- 
like hotel.  Zelphine  has  met  her  cousins,  and  has  been 
making  some  excursions  with  them,  taking  the  famous 
drive  to  the  monastery  of  Camaldoli  and  to  the  Sol- 

73 


ITALIAN    DAYS  AND  WAYS 


fatara,  a  half -extinct  volcano  which,  she  says,  gives 
one  an  even  more  impressive  idea  of  the  Inferno  than 
the  Dore  illustrations  of  Dante.  Angela  corroborated 
Zelphine's  report,  saying  that  it  was  quite  the  most 
unpleasant  place  she  had  ever  seen,  especially  as  they 
dropped  a  poor  dog  into  the  crater  to  try  the  effects 
of  the  sulphur  upon  his  constitution.  They  pulled 
him  out  before  he  was  quite  dead;  but  who  except 
these  cruel  Neapolitans  would  so  persecute  a  helpless 
animal  ? 

I,  with  my  old  habit  of  clinging  to  the  skirts  of  the 
things  I  already  know,  declined  to  take  that  excur- 
sion, for  the  greater  pleasure  of  spending  a  morning 
in  the  National  Museum  among  the  Pompeian  treas- 
ures and  another  whole  day  among  the  ruins  of  the 
buried  city.  It  is  really  much  more  interesting  to 
examine  the  relics  from  Pompeii  after  one  has  been 
there,  as  one  naturally  fits  the  frescoes,  furniture,  and 
ornaments  into  just  such  rooms  as  one  has  seen.  Some 
of  the  furniture  was  strangely  modern ;  I  noticed  a  red 
and  gilt  bedstead  that  looked  as  if  it  might  have  be- 
longed to  the  First  French  Empire,  rather  than  to  the 
first  century  A.D.  Among  the  kitchen  furnishings  were 
just  such  colanders,  saucepans,  and  skillets  as  we  use 
to-day — is  there  anything  really  new  under  this  shin- 
ing sun  ?  The  surgical  and  dental  instruments  exhib- 

74 


AN   EXCITING   DRIVE 


ited  in  one  of  the  cases  caused  me  a  genuine  thrill  of 
sympathy  for  those  unhappy  Pompeians ;  to  have  been 
smothered  with  hot  ashes  might  really  have  been  more 
endurable  than  to  have  lived  at  the  mercy  of  those 
primitive  dentists  and  surgeons ! 

We  leave  Naples  to-morrow  with  regret,  as  we  have 
grown  very  fond  of  this  beautiful  city.  I  wrote  a  week 
since  to  Ludovico  Baldini,  and  also  to  the  proprietor 
of  a  hotel  that  he  recommended  to  me;  but  I  have 
heard  from  neither.  Ludovico  may  be  in  Florence  on 
some  army  business,  but  it  is  very  stupid  of  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  Hotel  L.  not  to  answer  my  letter.  "We 
have  telegraphed  for  rooms  in  a  pension  on  the  Via 
Sistina,  which  Mrs.  Coxe  tells  us  is  delightful,  and 
we  are  thankful  to  know  that  they  will  accommodate 
us,  as  Rome  is  full  to  overflowing  now,  all  the  world 
going  up  thither  for  Easter.  When  I  told  my  maid 
that  we  were  going  to  Rome  to-morrow,  she  clasped  her 
hands  in  ecstasy,  exclaiming,  ' '  Bella  Roma !  Bella 
Roma!"  These  Italians  have  a  natural  instinct  for 
beauty  and  a  genuine  pride  in  the  wonders  of  their  own 
country,  both  of  which  help  them  to  endure  the 
poverty  and  hardness  of  their  lives,  just  as  some 
people  of  your  acquaintance  and  mine  are  supported 
through  many  trials  by  the  uplifting  sense  of  having 
been  born  in  the  purple. 

75 


V 
BELLA  ROMA 


VIA  SISTINA,  ROME,  March  16th. 

WE  felt  as  if  we  had  accomplished  a  day 's  work  be- 
fore we  left  Naples,  this  morning,  the  getting  away 
from  these  places  is  so  laborious.  After  our  trunks 
were  strapped  and  ready  for  the  facchini  and  porters, 
the  feeing  of  the  servants  had  to  be  attended  to.  This 
was  Angela's  especial  task.  She  had  managed  the 
financial  part  of  our  six  days'  trip  so  admirably  that 
Zelphine  and  I  have  honored  her  by  electing  her  bursar 
for  the  party.  She  does  not  seem  fully  to  appreciate 
the  honor  we  have  conferred  upon  her,  but  with  her 
usual  amiability  she  is  quite  willing  to  do  the  work. 

When  the  servants  all  lined  up  in  the  dining-room, 
they  made  a  formidable  array.  I  did  not  wonder  that 
Angela  looked  as  if  she  would  rather  be  somewhere 
else.  She  was  getting  through  the  ordeal  very  credit- 
ably, however,  when  the  padrone  appeared  upon  the 
scene;  very  indelicate  of  him,  was  it  not,  to  come  in 
just  then?  This  so  embarrassed  Angela  that  she  was 
very  near  giving  him  the  generous  tip  that  she  had 

76 


BELLA   ROMA 


dedicated  to  the  head  waiter.  Would  he  have  taken  it, 
think  you  ?  Zelphine  says  that  he  certainly  would,  as 
no  hotel-keeper  in  Italy  can  withstand  the  glint  of 
silver.  Be  this  as  it  may,  we  are  glad  that  Angela 
did  not  persist  in  her  indiscriminate  generosity,  as  our 
purses  are  already  seriously  depleted  by  the  demands 
made  upon  them  by  chambermaids,  facckini,  head 
porter,  sub-porter,  concierge,  head  waiter  and  his  troop 
of  underlings,  each  one  with  an  empty  hand  and  an 
expectant  eye.  There  is,  we  have  learned,  a  long  step 
between  the  facchini  and  the  porter,  and  still  another 
social  gradation  between  the  porter  and  the  concierge. 
The  latter  is  quite  an  important  personage,  in  a  fine 
uniform,  who  usually  speaks  excellent  English, 
French,  and  often  several  other  languages. 

At  the  station  we  had  to  undergo  the  weighing  of 
our  luggage,  a  weariness  to  the  flesh  at  all  times, 
but  especially  trying  to-day,  as  all  the  world  seemed 
to  be  en  route  for  Rome.  We  were  detained  so  long 
that  we  barely  had  time  to  catch  our  train.  I  some- 
times wonder  if  any  one  ever  actually  lost  one  of  these 
slow-moving  trains.  We  travelled  second  class  to-day, 
"  for  local  color,"  as  Zelphine  says.  In  point  of 
comfort  there  seems  to  us  little  difference  between 
first  and  second  class;  the  former  have  stuffy  plush 
coverings  on  the  seats,  instead  of  leather  and  reps,  and 

77 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 


somewhat  more  select  company.  Our  companions 
were  two  well-to-do  young  matrons,  an  old  peasant 
woman,  and  three  children.  The  two  younger  women 
were  inclined  to  be  sociable  as  far  as  our  common 
vocabularies  permitted,  and  plied  us  with  questions, 
which  we  answered  with  more  or  less  accuracy 
according  to  our  ability — it  is  sometimes  difficult 
to  be  entirely  truthful  in  a  language  one  does  not 
understand;  but  Zelphine  did  most  of  the  talking, 
having  developed  considerable  facility  in  speaking 
French  with  a  fine  Italian  accent.  Confusing  as 
this  mongrel  dialect  might  be  to  an  educated  Italian, 
it  often  stands  us  in  good  stead  with  shopkeepers, 
maids,  cabbies,  and  faccliini,  and  to-day  seemed  toler- 
ably intelligible  to  our  compagnons  de  voyage. 
Indeed,  we  became  so  intimate  that  one  of  the  women 
asked  Zelphine  for  her  vinaigrette  for  the  "  bam- 
bino "  to  smell,  the  bambino  having  proved  herself 
to  be  a  poor  traveller. 

Zelphine  invariably  carries  a  black  satin  bag,  which 
we  have  dubbed  "  Mrs.  Leeks,"  because,  like  Frank 
Stockton's  queen  of  emergencies,  it  always  provides 
what  we  need  at  any  given  moment,  whether  it 
happens  to  be  a  shoe-button  or  a  guide-book.  The 
bambino  was  fascinated  by  the  smelling-bottle,  and 
stretched  out  her  hand  for  it  as  soon  as  Zelphine  took 

78 


BELLA   ROMA 


it  from  the  depths  of  Mrs.  Leeks  and  applied  it  to  her 
own  patrician  nostrils.  As  this  is  a  country  where 
bambinos  seem  to  be  denied  nothing,  the  mother's 
hand  was  also  outstretched,  and  there  was  nothing 
for  Zelphine  to  do  but  to  hand  over  her  dainty 
vinaigrette  to  that  untidy-looking  baby.  Now  was 
not  that  a  trial  of  good  nature? 

Angela  was  much  interested  in  a  half-starved,  ill- 
clad  boy  of  ten  or  twelve,  who  was,  the  old  peasant 
informed  us,  an  orfano  adopted  by  her.  We  won- 
dered how  these  people  came  to  be  travelling  sec- 
ond class,  as  everything  about  them  indicated  extreme 
poverty.  The  orphan's  eyes  gleamed  when  Angela 
spread  out  her  luncheon,  and  she  made  haste  to  share 
her  rolls  and  figs  with  him,  while  we  offered  our 
refreshments  to  the  other  occupants  of  the  carriage, 
having  understood  that  this  is  Italian  etiquette.  They, 
with  many  compliments,  declined  the  bounty — which 
may  also  be  in  accordance  with  good  breeding  in  Italy 
— all  except  the  orphan,  who  fell  upon  Angela's 
stores  with  the  appetite  of  youth  sharpened  by  a 
long  fast  from  dainties.  Upon  this  the  old  woman, 
not  to  be  outdone,  drew  forth  from  a  stuff  bag  a 
loaf  of  brown  bread  wrapped  in  a  red  kerchief  such 
as  she  wore  on  her  head,  and  proceeded  to  cut  off 
a  goodly  slice.  Angela  begged  her  for  a  small  piece, 

79 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 

piccolo  being  one  of  the  words  that  she  knows,  and 
I  came  to  the  rescue  by  handing  her  a  bottle  of  wine 
and  begging  her  to  give  the  old  dame  a  generous 
glass  of  it.  This  libation  proved  so  acceptable  that  I 
really  do  not  think  that  the  woman  knew  whether  or 
not  Angela  had  eaten  that  untempting  bit  of  bread. 
She  finally  hid  it  under  her  napkin,  saying,  ' '  A  bit  of 
local  color,  Zelphine,  that  I  will  share  with  you  later. ' ' 

We  found  little  to  interest  us  in  this  journey  of 
more  than  five  hours  over  a  level,  sparsely  wooded 
country,  whose  monotony  was  broken  now  and  again 
by  an  abrupt  rise  in  the  ground.  These  hills  that  have 
been  thrown  up  from  the  general  flatness  of  the  land 
by  some  internal  disturbance  are  generally  crowned 
by  a  church  and  monastery,  and  many  of  them  by 
towns  of  some  size.  As  they  rise  from  the  plain,  gray 
buildings  upon  gray  rocks,  standing  out  against  the 
blue  of  the  sky,  they  perfectly  fulfil  one's  idea  of  a 
fortress  town  of  the  middle  ages. 

The  guide-books  are  all  written  for  those  who  reach 
Rome  from  the  north,  but  however  the  Eternal  City 
may  appear  from  other  approaches,  we  felt  that  we 
were  fortunate  in  our  first  view  of  her  spires  and 
domes  across  the  green  and  blossoming  Campagna. 
Through  a  mist  or  delicate  veil  of  peach  and  almond 
blossoms  we  saw  her  seated  upon  her  seven  hills,  glori- 

80 


BELLA   ROMA 


ous,  dominant,  the  mother  of  us  all,  drawing  us  to  her 
by  the  power  of  her  great  past  and  the  charm  of  her 
beautiful  present.  You  probably  remember  that  when 
Mrs.  Browning  visited  Rome  as  early  as  1854,  she  found 
it  to  be  disappointingly  modern,  "  a  palimpsest  Rome — 
a  watering-place  written  over  the  antique."  Zelphine 
and  I  had  heard  somewhat  the  same  criticism  from  so 
many  intelligent  and  conscientious  travellers  that  we 
were  prepared  for  disappointment.  I  can  truthfully 
say  that  despite  the  overlying  modern  characters  the 
ancient  writing  on  the  walls  reveals  itself  so  plainly 
that,  even  with  all  this  weight  of  authority  against  us, 
we  are  not  disappointed.  Mrs.  Browning 's  impressions 
of  Rome  were  clouded,  as  she  herself  confesses,  by  the 
sad  death  of  Mr.  Story's  little  boy,  Penini's  play- 
mate, which  occurred  soon  after  her  arrival,  and  by 
her  consequent  anxiety  about  her  own  child.  Then, 
again,  vast  tracts  of  ancient  Rome  have  been  un- 
earthed since  Mrs.  Browning  looked  upon  the  Forum, 
which  was  then  level  with  the  street,  and  overgrown 
with  vines  and  gay  with  flowers. 

Of  course,  railroad  stations  cannot  fail  to  be  mod- 
ern, customs  officials  are  unpleasantly  up-to-date  in 
their  ways,  and  it  seems  strangely  incongruous  to 
find  electric  trams  whirling  around  St.  Peter's,  the 
Coliseum,  and  the  Forum;  but  having  once  accepted 
6  81 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 


these  innovations,  we  were  pleased  to  find  antiquity 
raising  its  hoary  head  at  every  turn.  Near  the  bus- 
tling railroad  station  are  the  great  ruins  of  the  Baths 
of  Diocletian,  and  driving  from  thence  to  the  Via 
Sistina  we  passed  through  a  most  interesting  street 
named  after  the  four  fountains  that  adorn  it.  The 
Via  Sistina,  where  we  are  lodged,  joins  the  Via 
Gregoriana  a  few  steps  from  our  pension,  and  at  the 
angle  of  meeting  is  a  quaint,  picturesque  house  where 
the  Zuceari,  a  family  of  artists,  once  lived.  A  little 
further  on  is  the  ancient  Church  of  Trinita  de '  Monti, 
where  one  may  hear  the  nuns  sing  their  vesper  hymns 
on  Sunday  afternoons,  and  beyond  the  church  the  wide 
pergola  of  ilex-trees,  twisted  and  bent  and  clipped 
in  a  fashion  known  only  to  Italian  gardeners.  This 
broad  pergola  shades  the  sunny  street  leading  to  the 
Pincio,  or  "  Hill  of  Gardens,"  as  the  ancients  called 
it.  Here  we  found  our  way  soon  after  our  arrival, 
and  sitting  upon  the  stone  wall  above  the 
Piazza  del  Popolo  we  basked  in  the  warm  sunshine 
and  read  our  home  letters,  with  Rome  spread  before 
us.  St.  Peter's,  with  the  long  line  of  the  Vatican 
buildings,  a  city  in  themselves,  lies  to  the  right,  and 
quite  near  on  the  Tiber  is  the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo, 
Hadrian 's  tomb,  with  an  angel  on  the  summit  sheath- 
ing his  bloody  sword,  while  on  the  western  horizon,  as 

82 


BELLA   ROMA 


far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  is  the  Janiculum  Hill.  We 
could  faintly  trace  upon  its  crest  the  outline  of  the 
equestrian  statue  of  Garibaldi,  which  dominates  all 
Rome,  as  indeed  it  should.  We  strolled  back  through 
the  blooming  shrubbery  and  the  pergola  to  the  Square 
of  Trinita  de'  Monti,  and  down  those  Spanish  Steps 
of  which  we  have  read  so  much — great,  wide  steps, 
so  many  of  them  that  we  have  not  the  courage  to  count 
them,  and  of  marble  that  is  neither  white  nor  gray  but 
of  a  warm  yellow  tone  with  a  dash  of  pink  in  it, 
reminding  us  of  the  soft  shades  of  the  gates  of  the 
Alhambra.  To  the  left  as  one  goes  down  the  steps 
is  a  square  yellow  house,  where  John  Keats  passed 
the  last  suffering  weeks  of  his  life.  This  house  was 
selected  for  Keats  by  Dr.  Clark  because  it  was  near 
his  own.  A  square  tablet  marks  the  building  as  the 
one  from  which  this  rare  spirit  "  outsoared  the 
shadow  of  our  night. ' ' 

At  the  foot  of  the  Spanish  Steps  are  the  vendors 
of  flowers.  Men  and  women  are  always  to  be  found 
here  selling  the  most  exquisite  roses,  lilies,  daffodils, 
frisias,  anemones,  giant  mignonette  of  the  most  frag- 
rant kind,  and  long  sprays  of  peach  and  almond  blos- 
soms. Fancy,  if  you  can,  the  steps,  above  them  the 
Piazza  of  Santa  Trinita  de'  Monti,  with  its  marble 
balustrades,  and  the  Piazza  di  Spagna  below,  with 
'  83 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND   WAYS 

its  sparkling  fountain,  all  bathed  in  the  most  brilliant 
sunshine,  and  you  will  believe  that  we  are  indeed  well 
placed,  living  near  so  much  that  is  beautiful. 

March  18th. 

Although  there  were  a  thousand  things  to  be  seen 
in  Rome,  we  turned  our  backs  upon  them  all  and 
went  to  Tivoli  yesterday,  because  a  pleasant  party 
was  going  from  here  and  the  day  was  fine.  We  drove 
through  the  newly  built  Veneto  quarter,  passing  Queen 
Margherita's  palace,  with  its  handsome  broad  facade, 
which  is  directly  on  the  street.  The  great  gardens  are 
behind,  surrounded  by  high  walls  overtopped  by  tall 
camellia-trees  full  of  their  red  and  white  blossoms. 
We  passed  through  the  Porta  San  Lorenzo,  beyond 
which  is  the  station  for  Tivoli.  The  road  passes  near 
the  Church  of  San  Lorenzo,  which  is  said  to  be  a  per- 
fect example  of  the  basilica,  as  it  rises  in  "  its  gray 
reverend  dignity  "  against  the  background  of  the 
Campagna  and  the  blue  mountains  of  Tivoli.  Inside 
of  this  church  are  the  tombs  of  Pius  IX.  and  several 
other  popes,  and  frescoes  and  mosaics,  ancient  and 
modern,  of  great  richness. 

Our  road  lay  through  a  desolate-looking  country, 
but  for  that  reason  none  the  less  dear  to  the  heart  of 
the  antiquarian.  For  near  the  river  Anio  and  the 

84 


BELLA   ROMA 


Tuzia,  both  of  which  we  crossed,  our  guide  told  us 
that  Hannibal  had  encamped ;  a  little  way  beyond  was 
the  hallowed  grove  of  the  Muses;  and  to  the  ruined 
baths  of  the  Aquas  Albulas  the  captive  queen  of  Pal- 
myra came  from  her  villa  near  by,  to  bathe  in  the 
milk-white  water.  The  steam  tram  stopped  for  us 
most  accommodatingly  at  the  sulphur  springs,  and 
allowed  us  time  to  walk  around  and  see  all  that  is  left 
of  this  ancient  resort.  Here  the  emperors  and  tribunes 
of  Eome  came  to  wash  away  their  sins,  just  as  our 
politicians  go  to  Saratoga  and  the  Southern  springs 
for  the  same  purpose.  The  water,  which  is  always 
spoken  of  as  milk-white,  seemed  to  us  to  have  a  de- 
cidedly blue  shade,  an  exquisite  light  blue.  The 
deposit  left  by  the  sulphur  or  sulphuretted  hydrogen 
has  hardened  in  the  beds  of  the  streams  and  pools 
into  the  most  curious  and  grotesque  shapes.  These 
deposits  we  afterwards  found  used  at  the  Villa  d  'Este 
and  elsewhere  for  the  decorations  of  the  fountains. 

At  Tivoli  hacks  were  awaiting  us,  in  which  we  drove 
to  the  Villa  d  'Este.  This  stately  and  imposing  palace, 
with  its  spacious  garden,  was  worthy  to  be  the  resi- 
dence of  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  distinguished 
princely  houses  of  Italy.  We  entered  the  palace  en- 
closure through  the  cloister  of  the  Church  of  St. 
Francis,  and  saw  in  the  long  corridors  and  spacious 

85 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 

apartments  many  beautiful  frescoes  by  Zuccaro  and 
Muziano.  Some  of  these  are  considerably  damaged  by 
the  dampness,  but  many  still  exhibit  rare  grace  of 
design  and  richness  of  color.  Beneath  the  villa  is  a 
broad  terrace  ending  in  a  noble  archway,  through 
which  one  may  look  forth  upon  hillsides  glorified  by 
the  blossoming  almond,  peach  and  Judas  trees.  From 
this  terrace  winding  stairways  lead  to  other  terraces 
below,  upon  each  one  of  which  fountains  send  up  jets 
of  feathery  spray  that  display  their  iridescent  colors 
against  the  background  of  huge  cypresses.  It  is  all 
a  dream  of  loveliness,  and  full  of  the  indescribable 
atmosphere  of  old-world  charm.  We  could  imagine 
the  poet  Tasso,  who  was  attached  to  the  court  of  one 
of  the  Dukes  of  Ferrara,  drawing  inspiration  from 
these  classic  groves,  in  whose  leafy  quiet  the  night- 
ingale must  surely  sing.  Here  the  beautiful  young 
daughters  of  the  house  played  in  the  sunshine  of 
the  too  brief  girlhood  granted  to  old-time  princesses. 
"We  afterwards  drove  through  the  old  town,  and 
from  a  lower  road  had  a  good  view  of  the  temples  and 
churches,  and  of  the  heights  of  Monte  Catillo,  its 
picturesque  hillsides,  and  the  cascades  which  seemed 
to  bubble  forth  from  every  fissure  and  crevice  in  the 
rocks — so  many  waterfalls  that  one  could  not  count 
them  all. 

86 


CYPRESS  WALK,  HADRIAN'S  VILLA 


BELLA   ROMA 


The  hotel  where  we  stopped  for  luncheon  is  built 
upon  a  shelving  rock  on  whose  garden  terrace  we 
sat  overlooking  the  valley.  Above  us,  on  another 
projection,  was  the  little  Temple  of  Vesta,  the  Sibyl, 
or  what  you  will — it  seems  to  make  little  difference 
what  one  calls  this  exquisite  circular  temple,  as  anti- 
quarians do  not  agree  about  its  name.  It  is,  however, 
so  graceful  in  form  and  so  rich  in  coloring  that, 
like  the  rose,  it  is  equally  lovely  by  whatever  name 
it  is  called,  especially  as  we  saw  it  to-day,  draped  with 
clematis  and  ivy,  crowning 

"  The  green  steep  whence  Anio  leaps, 
In  floods  of  snow-white  foam." 

After  luncheon  we  made  our  excursion  to  Hadrian 's 
Villa,  or  Villa  Adriana,  as  they  now  call  it,  which  is 
the  chief  object  of  interest  at  Tivoli  and  is  worthy  of 
something  more  than  a  superficial  inspection.  As 
you  doubtless  know,  it  is  not  a  villa,  or  even  a  palace, 
like  the  Villa  d'Este,  but  a  military  or  university 
town.  Here  are  quarters  for  the  soldiers,  dining- 
rooms  for  the  officers  and  their  men,  temples,  libraries, 
hospitals,  baths,  theatres,  race-courses,  gardens,  and 
fountains.  Most  of  the  sculptures  have  been  carried 
away  from  the  beautiful  Golden  Court  and  the  Hall 
of  Philosophy,  but  exquisite  bits  of  stone  carving  are 

87 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 


still  to  be  seen  in  the  courts  and  baths,  and  mosaic 
pavements  looking  as  bright  and  fresh  as  when  trod- 
den by  the  feet  of  Hadrian  in  A.  D.  138. 

As  we  passed  through  room  after  room,  with  their 
more  or  less  fragmentary  decorations,  Angela  reminded 
us  of  the  story  of  the  "Western  girl  who,  on  her  way 
to  Tivoli,  hoped  that  when  she  called  at  the  villa  the 
Hadrians  would  not  be  at  home,  as  she  had  not  put 
on  her  best  hat.  Zelphine  and  I  thought  that  this 
"  innocent  abroad  "  must  have  been  surprised  to  find 
that  when  the  Hadrians  left  their  villa  they  had 
taken  away  most  of  their  furniture  and  ornaments 
with  them.  What  queer  specimens  of  our  own  coun- 
trymen we  do  meet  en  voyage!  The  question  that  we 
ask  ourselves  most  frequently  is,  why  did  they  come? 

March  21st. 

I  have  been  wondering  why  I  have  not  heard  from 
Ludovico  Baldini.  We  went  to  the  bank  on  the  Piazza 
di  Spagna  this  morning,  and  found  my  Naples  letter 
lying  unopened.  To-day  I  had  decided  to  go  to 
French,  Lemon  &  Co.,  thinking  I  had  made  a  mistake 
about  the  bank,  when  as  we  were  walking  along  the 
Via  Nazionale  on  our  way  to  the  Rospigliosi  Palace, 
I  saw  a  young  man  on  the  other  side  of  the  way  take 
off  his  hat  and  wave  it  as  he  dashed  across  the  street. 

88 


BELLA   ROMA 


Of  course  it  was  Ludovico,  just  returned  from 
Florence,  as  bright  and  cordial  as  ever,  but  very  in- 
dignant over  not  having  had  my  letter  forwarded  to 
him. 

I  think  you  must  have  met  young  Mr.  Baldini,  of 
whom  I  speak  so  unceremoniously  as  Ludovico,  as  he 
was  often  at  our  common  friends ',  the  W.  's,  last  year. 
I  met  him  first  at  Jamestown,  in  the  summer,  and  he 
gave  me  so  many  valuable  suggestions  about  Italian 
travel  that  I  feel  greatly  indebted  to  him.  He  is 
young,  not  much  over  twenty-one,  but  in  some  respects 
seems  older,  and,  being  American  on  one  side,  he 
combines  considerable  practical  ability  with  the  Italian 
charm  of  manner  which  we  all  realize,  even  if  we  are 
not  always  happy  in  describing  it. 

"We  had  intended  to  go  somewhere  this  afternoon 
with  Mrs.  Robins  and  Bertha  Linn,  and  when  Ludo- 
vico suggested  our  driving  out  to  the  meet  near  the 
Tomb  of  Cgecilia  Metella,  we  concluded  that  this  was 
the  thing  of  all  others  that  we  wished  to  do,  more 
especially  as  this  was  the  last  meet  of  the  season.  We 
arrayed  ourselves  in  our  best,  as  all  the  smart  people 
go  to  the  meets  here.  Ludovico  secured  the  most  pre- 
sentable hacks  that  he  could  find,  and  we  set  forth, 
following  a  gay  procession  of  carriages  along  the 
street  of  tombs  to  a  sporting  scene;  but  for  such  in- 

89 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 


congruities  as  this,  commend  me  to  the  sympathetic 
Italian ! 

The  meet  was  worth  seeing — fine  horses,  good  rid- 
ing, life,  motion,  and  color.  There  were  many  hand- 
some, well-dressed  women  in  the  carriages  and  walking 
about ;  all  this  gayety  brought  out  in  strong  relief  by 
the  sombre  background  of  the  old  aqueduct  and  the 
great  circular  tomb  of  the  beloved  wife  of  Crassus. 

As  the  carriages  were  crowded  together,  we  left  ours, 
and  attempted  to  walk  over  the  field,  as  many  persons 
were  doing.  The  horses  and  dogs  turned  suddenly 
in  our  direction,  and  Mrs.  Robins,  in  trying  to  get  out 
of  their  way,  slipped,  fell,  and  would  have  been 
trampled  by  one  of  the  horses  had  not  his  rider  been  a 
most  expert  horseman.  Ludovico  was  in  a  rage  such 
as  these  hot-blooded  Latins  alone  are  capable  of,  and 
was  ready  to  call  out  the  young  horseman,  who  had 
done  all  that  man  could  do  to  prevent  an  accident, 
dismounting  at  once  and  most  courteously  apologizing. 
"It  is  entirely  our  fault  for  being  on  foot  where 
horses  and  dogs  had  the  right  of  way,"  I  said  to  the 
cavaliere,  who  bowed  with  the  gravity  of  a  Don 
Quixote,  evidently  quite  agreeing  with  me.  Ludovico, 
somewhat  appeased,  asked  me  to  allow  him  to  present 
the  gentleman,  who  was  an  acquaintance  of  his,  and 
this  ceremony  being  accomplished  satisfactorily  they 

90 


BELLA   ROMA 


both  handed  us  to  our  carriages  in  fine  style.  As 
Mrs.  Robins  fortunately  was  not  hurt,  we  were  all 
able  to  enjoy  the  spirited  scene  from  our  coign  of 
vantage.  The  dogs  broke  covert  over  on  the  Cam- 
pagna,  and  then  the  rush  and  scamper  of  the  gay 
cavalcade  across  the  plain  was  most  exciting,  horse- 
men and  hounds  in  full  cry. 

As  it  was  still  early  in  the  afternoon,  we  decided  to 
drive  to  the  Janiculum  Hill  to  see  the  fine  equestrian 
statue  of  Garibaldi  and  the  magnificent  view  from 
what  seems  here  quite  a  height,  because  it  rises 
abruptly  from  the  plain,  but  is  really  less  than  three 
hundred  feet.  The  air  was  perfectly  clear,  and  we 
could  literally  behold  all  Rome,  old  and  new,  spread 
out  before  us.  Between  the  hill  and  the  Tiber  lies  that 
large  quarter  known  as  Trastevere,  where  are  some  of 
the  most  interesting  churches,  as  Santa  Maria  and 
Santa  Cecilia.  Here  beautiful  villas  once  stood,  but 
Trastevere  is  now  almost  exclusively  inhabited  by  the 
working  classes.  A  fine  and  handsome  race,  differing 
in  dialect  from  the  citizens  of  other  quarters  of  Rome, 
the  Trasteverians  seem  to  have  some  right  to  the  dis- 
tinction which  they  claim  of  being  the  direct  descend- 
ants of  the  ancient  Romans. 

On  our  return  from  the  Janiculum  we  stopped  at 
St.  Peter's  in  Montorio,  which  is  on  one  of  the  slopes 

91 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 

of  the  Janiculum.  Although  the  crowning  glory  of 
this  church,  Raphael 's  Transfiguration,  has  been  taken 
from  the  high  altar  and  carried  to  the  Vatican,  a  few 
good  pictures  still  remain.  What  we  desired  to  see 
the  most,  though,  was  the  little  temple  in  the  court 
said  to  mark  the  spot  where  the  cross  of  St.  Peter 
stood.  The  chapel  contains  a  statue  of  the  saint,  and 
below,  down  some  steps,  is  a  grewsome  place  where 
he  is  said  to  have  been  crucified  in  a  manner  so  horri- 
ble that  I  really  cannot  undertake  to  describe  it  to 
you.  The  impression  made  upon  one  by  this  spot  is 
somewhat  the  less  thrilling  because  several  other 
places  are  shown  as  the  scene  of  the  martyrdom  of 
this  great  apostle.  The  woman  who  opened  the  temple 
for  us  scratched  up  some  of  the  earth  and  gave  it  to 
us  with  great  solemnity.  Angela's  face  was  a  study 
as  she  received  her  portion.  She  is  not,  as  you  may 
believe,  much  of  a  relic-hunter. 


92 


VI 

A  POET'S   CORNER 


VIA  SISTINA,  ROME,  March  22d. 
YOUR  letter  in  answer  to  mine  written  from  San 
Remo  reached  me  to-day.  It  really  seems  a  year  since 
I  wrote  you  that  letter,  instead  of  one  month.  So 
many  impressions  have  come  crowding  one  upon 
another  since  then  that  I  cannot  quite  recall  what  I 
said  of  a  personal  nature.  The  meeting  with  Genevra 
brought  back  the  old  familiar  associations  so  vividly 
that  we  sometimes  forgot  all  that  had  happened  since 
we  had  parted,  and  lived  over  our  early,  happy  days. 
If  you  read  into  my  letter  more  than  was  meant,  it  is 
because  some  of  the  glamour  of  that  time  caused 
will-o'-the-wisps  to  mislead  you.  No,  "  gang  your 
ain  gait,  Allan,"  as  your  mother's  old  Scotch  maid 
used  to  say.  You  have  a  great  future  before  you 
in  your  profession,  and  I — it  seems  to  me  sometimes 
that  I  have  only  a  past,  and  a  present  which  I  live  day 
by  day,  with  no  plans  for  the  years  to  come.  It  is 
so  difficult  to  readjust  one's  life  to  new  standards,  and 
those  who  stake  much  lose  heavily.  "We  both  loved 

93 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 

Headley  too  well  to  say  one  harsh  word  about  him.  I 
could  not  talk  to  you  thus  freely  were  it  not  so ;  indeed, 
I  never  could  speak  to  you  at  all  about  Headley — 
writing  is  easier,  across  the  great  expanse  of  waters. 
Now  that  I  have  broken  the  silence,  let  me  say  to  you, 
best  of  friends,  that  I  have  in  this  sunny  land  and 
among  these  changing  scenes  found  content,  which 
may  in  time  reach  the  measure  of  happiness.  Do  not 
disturb  this  peace,  I  beg  of  you,  but  be  satisfied  with 
our  good  old  friendship,  which  is  so  safe  and  sane. 

I  shall  really  be  afraid  to  tell  you  of  any  of  our 
contretemps,  you  take  them  so  seriously,  and  yet  you 
wish  to  know  of  all  our  wanderings  and  of  just  how 
certain  things  impress  us.  I  had  forgotten  about  that 
absurd  homesickness  in  Genoa,  until  you  spoke  of  it. 
It  was  an  acute  attack,  I  assure  you,  and,  like  the 
proverbial  grief  of  the  widower,  violent  while  it 
lasted,  but  soon  well  over  and  done  with.  Now  we 
wonder  how  any  one  could  possibly  be  homesick  in  this 
Italy  which  we  love  so  much,  above  all  in  Rome,  which 
seems  each  day  more  and  more  the  mother  of  us  all. 
Zelphine  and  Angela  will  tell  you  that  Margaret  is 
the  gayest  of  the  party.  You  know  that  I  never 
would  be  a  kill-joy,  and  here  there  is  so  much  to  in- 
terest one  on  all  sides. 

So  you  are  glad  that  there  is  one  good  English 
94 


A  POET'S   CORNER 


name  in  the  party,  and  are  pleased  to  like  the  sound 
of  my  homespun  baptismal?  Angela  is  of  the  same 
mind ;  she  says  that  my  sensible  ' '  Margaret  ' '  strikes 
a  happy  balance  between  Zelphine's  romantic  name, 
which  she  feels  it  her  duty  to  live  up  to,  and  her 
own,  equally  fanciful,  which  she  takes  pleasure  in 
defying.  By  way  of  adapting  herself  gracefully  to  the 
situation,  Angela  has  fallen  into  the  habit  of  calling 
Zelphine  "  Z. "  This  is  all  very  well,  but  I  am  thank- 
ful that  she  does  not  insist  upon  being  called  "  A.," 
as  the  constant  turning  from  A.  to  Z.  would  be 
unpleasantly  suggestive  of  algebraic  formulae,  which 
were  the  bane  of  my  school-days. 

We  laugh  at  Zelphine  and  chaff  her  continually 
about  her  flights  of  fancy ;  but  no  person  could  travel 
with  her  without  realizing  what  a  pleasure  it  is  to  be 
with  a  woman  whose  mind  is  so  stored  with  the  poetry 
and  history  of  these  old  cities,  one  who  enters  so  heart 
and  soul  into  every  interesting  association.  I  said 
something  of  this  to  Angela  one  morning  as  we  turned 
from  the  Via  Condotti  into  the  Corso,  feeling  that  she 
might  not  appreciate  all  her  privileges. 

"  Zelphine  is,"  I  said,  "  steeped  in  the  lore  of  the 
past." 

' '  Yes,  up  to  the  neck !  ' '    replied  Angela,  with 
emphasis.     "  I   feel  that   I   am   now  enjoying  that 

95 


ITALIAN    DAYS  AND  WAYS 


liberal   education   that  I  have  heard  about   all  my 
life." 

"  The  education  is  not  liberal  in  including  your  ex- 
pressions," I  said,  with  an  attempt  at  severity. 

' '  Don 't  you  understand,  Margaret  ?  Must  I  always 
explain?  "  said  Angela,  lifting  her  innocent  blue  eyes 
to  mine.  ' '  I  mean  that  Z.  swims  in  learning,  and  one 
must  be  in  up  to  one's  neck  to  swim  comfortably!  " 

Angela  is  quite  hopeless,  and  by  way  of  punishing 
her  I  stopped  to  buy  her  some  of  the  delicious  red 
roses  that  make  me  think  of  June  days  at  home,  espe- 
cially of  the  roses  in  your  mother's  garden,  which 
were  always  the  reddest.  Zelphine  having  stepped  on 
in  advance  of  us  to  attend  to  a  commission  at  the 
cleaner's,  where  they  "  gar  auld  claes  look  amaist  as 
weel's  the  new,"  we  sauntered  on  along  what  one  of 
your  favorite  writers  describes  so  enthusiastically  as 
"  that  world-famous  avenue,  the  Corso." 

' '  Do  look  at  her !  ' '  exclaimed  Angela,  as  we  passed 
the  Via  Convertite  and  saw  Zelphine  standing  at  the 
corner  of  the  Via  San  Claudio,  gazing  spellbound  at 
the  windows  of  a  house  on  the  other  side  of  the  street. 
"  She's  quite  happy;  time  and  place  are  nothing  to 
her — she  has  discovered  the  Shelley  tablet  on  that 
house.  I  saw  it  several  days  ago,  but  I  thought  I'd 
let  Z.  find  it  for  herself.  She'll  never  rest  content 

96 


A  POET'S    CORNER 


till  she  sees  the  room  in  which  Shelley  wrote  '  The 
Cenci  '  and  '  Prometheus  Unbound.'  It  is  probably 
not  worth  seeing  when  you  get  into  it,  and  may  not  be 
the  room  at  all ;  but  see  it  Z.  will,  or  die  in  the  attempt. 
I  don't  believe  in  all  these  wonderful  tales  that  we 
hear.  You  only  half  believe  in  them  yourself,  Mar- 
garet, so  I  dare  to  talk  to  you;  Z.  swallows  them 
whole,  and  so  does  Ludovico,  and  that  is  what  makes 
them  such  good  friends." 

"  And  is  it  your  incredulity,  my  dear,  that  makes 
you  and  Ludovico  such  bitter  enemies  ?  ' : 

Angela  laughed  her  light,  musical  laugh. 

' '  We  do  quarrel,  you  know ;  we  had  quite  a  battle 
last  evening  over  the  Catacombs.  Ludovico  says  that 
I  must  see  them;  that  it  would  be  positively  dis- 
graceful for  me  to  leave  Rome  without  seeing  the 
Catacombs  of  Calixtus,  at  least.  You  know  that  I 
don't  care  for  such  dismal  places.  Rome  is  so  gay 
and  bright  on  top,  why  should  we  burrow  underneath 
after  tombs  and  Christian  martyrs,  while  the  sun  is 
shining  upon  the  Pincio  and  there  are  no  end  of  things 
to  be  seen  above  ground?  There  she  goes,  after  the 
concierge!  " 

There  was  nothing  for  us  to  do  but  to  follow  Zel- 
phine  into  the  somewhat  shabby  house  and  upstairs 
into  the  poet's  room.  It  was  worth  much  to  stand  in 
7  97 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 


the  room  where  Shelley  had  once  written,  and  to  look 
from  the  windows  from  which  he  could  see  the  varied, 
moving  panorama  of  the  busy  Corso  and  the  ancient 
Church  of  San  Silvestro  in  Capite,  in  whose  adjoining 
convent  the  beautiful  Vittoria  Colonna  took  refuge  in 
her  widowhood,  and  wrote  her  sonnets  in  memory  of 
a  beloved  husband. 

A  curious  commentary  upon  the  power  of  the  world 
over  the  Church  is  to  be  found  in  the  fact  that  Pope 
Clement  VII.  forbade  the  abbess  and  nuns,  "  under 
pain  of  the  greater  excommunication, ' '  to  permit  this 
noble  lady  the  usual  solace  of  afflicted  womanhood,  the 
cloister  and  the  veil.  This  picturesque  old  convent 
with  its  lovely  cloisters  is  now  used  as  a  post  office. 

From  Shelley's  house  we  retraced  our  steps  along 
the  Corso  and  turned  into  the  Piazza  San  Lorenzo, 
where  is  the  little  Church  of  San  Lorenzo  in  Lucina, 
in  which  Browning's  Pompilia  wras  baptized  and  mar- 
ried, her  "  own  particular  place,"  where  she  won- 
dered, as  we  did, 

"what  the  marble  lion  meant, 
With  half  his  body  rushing  from  the  wall, 
Eating  the  figure  of  a  prostrate  man." 

Standing  before  the  wonderful  altar-piece  of  Guido 
Reni  's  Crucifixion,  painted  against  a  wild  and  stormy 
sky,  we  realized  how  the  suffering  tace  of  the  compas- 


A  POET'S   CORNER 


sionate  Christ  must  have  risen  again  and  again  before 
the  despairing  eyes  of  the  persecuted  child- wife : 

"  the  piece 

Of  Master  Guido  Reni,  Christ  on  Cross, 
Second  to  nought  observable  in  Rome." 

Other  and  more  impressive  associations  with  Shel- 
ley's life  in  Rome  than  the  little  room  on  the  Corso 
we  found  this  afternoon  when  we  drove  out  to  the 
Baths  of  Caracalla,  which  even  now  cover  so  large  a 
space  that  they  have  been  well  named  a  city  of  pleas- 
ure. "We  climbed  over  the  mountainous  ruin  and  up 
the  winding  stairs,  trying  to  find  just  such  a  perch  as 
Shelley  described  in  the  preface  to  his  "  Prometheus 
Unbound." 

Bald  and  naked  are  these  walls  to-day,  but  not 
unsightly,  as  they  stand  out  against  the  blue  of  the 
Roman  sky  and  the  fresh  green  of  the  Campagna. 
They  are  denuded  of  the  vines  and  flowers  that 
adorned  them  when,  as  Shelley  says,  he  wrote  his 
poem  "  among  the  flowery  glades  and  thickets  of 
odoriferous  blossoming  trees  which  are  extended,  in 
ever-winding  labyrinths,  upon  its  immense  platforms 
and  dizzy  arches  suspended  in  the  air. ' ' 

Now  as  then  Rome  lies  on  one  side,  with  her  many 
domes  and  towers;  on  the  other  are  the  mountains, 
blue  in  the  distance,  and  white  beyond  the  blue,  where 

99 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 

the  snow  lingers  late  upon  their  peaks.  Like  another 
mountain  stands  out  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's,  which 
Ampere  says  is  "  the  only  one  of  the  works  of  man 
that  possesses  something  of  the  grandeur  of  the  works 
of  God." 

Being  in  the  mood  for  poetic  associations,  we  drove 
around  by  the  Porta  San  Paolo,  just  outside  of  which, 
enclosed  by  high  walls  and  overshadowed  by  the  great 
pyramidal  Tomb  of  Caius  Cestius,  is  the  old  Protest- 
ant Cemetery.    An  ideal  Campo  Santo  is  this  lovely 
spot,  of  which  Shelley  wrote  that ' '  it  might  make  one 
in  love  with  death  to  think  that  one  should  be  buried 
in  so  sweet  a  place."    We  wandered  over  the  grass 
and  looked  up  at  the  sky  through  the  trees,  while 
Zelphine  quoted  the  lines  that  fit  the  scene  so  well : 
"  Pass,  till  the  spirit  of  the  spot  shall  lead 
Thy  footsteps  to  a  slope  of  green  access, 
Where,  like  an  infant's  smile,  over  the  dead 
A  light  of  laughing  flowers  along  the  grass  is  spread." 

And  so  passing  from  grave  to  grave  we  came  to  the 
one  we  sought,  and  standing  before  a  simple  stone 
slab,  read  those  sad  words  which  poor  Keats,  in  bitter- 
ness of  spirit,  wished  to  have  written  above  his  grave : 
"  Here  lies  one  whose  name  was  writ  in  water."  It 
was  comforting  to  turn  from  this  to  a  marble  tablet 
on  the  wall  near  by,  where  there  is  a  head  of  Keats 

100 


A  POET'S    CORNER 


in  low  relief,  and  under  it  a  beautiful  inscription 
saying  that  he  is  among  the  immortals.  The  young 
poet's  devoted  friend  Joseph  Severn  lies  near  him. 

Across  the  road  is  the  newer  cemetery,  whose  gate 
was  opened  for  us  by  a  girl  with  a  huge  key  fastened 
to  her  girdle,  whom  Zelphine  and  I  likened  to  "  the 
damsel  named  Discretion."  Angela,  being  a  modern 
girl  and  unfamiliar  with  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  did 
not  understand  the  allusion,  and  said: 

11  Small  thanks  to  her  if  she  is  discreet,  when  she 
is  not  able  to  say  a  word  to  us,  good  or  bad !  ' ' 

Zelphine  always  looks  at  me  hopelessly  on  such 
occasions,  lamenting  over  what  she  calls  the  lack  of 
background  in  the  outlook  of  the  girl  of  to-day,  whom 
I  always  defend  loyally  although  I  believe  Zelphine 
is  more  than  half  right. 

"We  found  the  grave  of  Shelley,  who  so  soon  fol- 
lowed his  Adonais.  It  seemed  as  if  that  lonely  "  Cor 
Cordium  ' '  should  have  been  buried  near  the  friendly 
shades  of  Keats  and  Severn.  Yet  Mrs.  Shelley,  in 
writing  of  the  burial  of  the  ashes  of  her  husband, 
makes  no  mention  of  their  being  placed  within  the 
newer  cemetery.  She  simply  says  he  selected  the  hal- 
lowed place  himself,  where  is  the 

"  sepulchre, 

0,  not  of  him,  but  of  our  joy ! " 
101 


VII 
ANTIQUITIES    AND    ORANGE-BLOSSOMS 

VIA  SISTINA,  ROME,  March  23d. 

IT  is  so  delightful  to  have  some  one  with  us  who 
knows  and  loves  Rome  as  Ludovico  does.  He  shows 
us  about  con  amore  and  with  the  greatest  enthusiasm, 
not  in  the  perfunctory  guide-book  fashion.  He  and 
Angela  are  already  good  friends,  and  chatter  away 
like  two  magpies  about  everything  upon  the  earth  and 
beneath  it  as  well,  which  is  quite  natural,  as  many  of 
our  proposed  excursions  are  subterranean,  and  we 
never  know  what  wonder  of  the  world  may  be  sprung 
upon  us  at  the  next  corner. 

Ludovico  was  much  pleased  to  learn  that  we  had 
not  yet  found  our  way  to  the  Capitol,  as  he  wished  to 
personally  conduct  us  thither,  advising  us  to  drive  to 
the  Piazza  del  Campidoglio  -/n  order  to  save  the  climb 
up  the  long  flight  of  steps  leading  to  it  from  the  street. 
We  thus  missed  the  first  view  from  below  of  the  noble 
statue  of  Marcus  Aurelius,  which  was  once  gilded 
over,  like  some  of.  our  modern  statues,  and  stood  near 
the  Lateran.  Those  old  sculptors  knew  how  a  ruler 

102 


ANTIQUITIES  AND    ORANGE-BLOSSOMS 

should  look !  You  must  see  this  statue  of  your  grand 
old  heathen  emperor  some  day;  there  is  majesty  and 
dominance  in  every  line. 

In  the  museum  we  passed  beautiful  bas-reliefs  rep- 
resenting classic  scenes,  the  colossal  statue  of  the 
Emperor  Hadrian  in  armor,  and  sarcophagi  strangely 
decorated  with  bacchanalian  representations,  until  we 
suddenly  found  ourselves  in  the  Room  of  the  Dying 
Gladiator,  with  that  wonderful  marble  figure  before 
us  of  which  Byron  wrote : 

"  He  recked  not  of  the  life  he  lost,  nor  prize, 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay, 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play, 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother — he,  their  sire, 
Butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday." 

We  lingered  long  beside  this  impressive  marble,  and 
then  turned  to  the  Resting  Satyr  of  Praxiteles,  made 
familiar  to  us  all  by  Hawthorne's  description.  You 
remember  that  Donatello  so  strongly  resembled  the 
statue  that  Miriam  begged  him  to  shake  aside  his 
thick  curls  and  allow  her  to  see  whether  he  had  the 
Faun's  leaf-shaped  pointed  ears.  This  he  declined  to 
do,  saying,  as  he  danced  around  the  statue  of  the 
Dying  Gladiator,  ' '  I  shall  be  like  a  wolf  of  the  Apen- 
nines if  you  touch  my  ears  ever  so  softly.  None  of 
my  race  could  endure  it. ' ' 

103 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 

If,  as  Hawthorne  says,  "  only  a  sculptor  of  the 
finest  imagination,  the  most  delicate  taste,  the  sweetest 
feeling,  and  the  rarest  artistic  skill — in  a  word,  a 
sculptor  and  a  poet  too — could  have  first  dreamed  of  a 
faun  in  this  guise,  and  then  have  succeeded  in  impris- 
oning the  sportive  and  frisky  thing  in  marble, ' '  surely 
none  but  a  novelist  and  a  poet  too  could  have  pre- 
sented on  the  page  of  romance  this  creature  of  the 
woods  and  hills,  half  man,  half  animal,  the  sensitive, 
emotional,  whimsical,  and  altogether  fascinating  Don- 
atello. 

The  statues  of  the  Faun,  the  Dying  Gladiator,  and 
the  beautiful  youth  Antinous  are  all  among  the  treas- 
ures of  which  Hadrian's  Villa  was  despoiled,  as  was 
also  the  exquisite  mosaic  of  doves  on  a  fountain  basin, 
called  Pliny's  Doves,  because,  in  speaking  of  the  per- 
fection to  which  the  mosaic  art  had  attained,  Pliny 
described  a  wonderful  mosaic  in  which  one  dove  is 
drinking  and  casting  her  shadow  in  the  water  while 
others  are  pluming  themselves  on  the  edge  of  the  vase. 
While  in  the  room  of  the  Doves  we  paid  our  respects 
to  the  Capitoline  Venus,  which,  although  considered  a 
perfect  type  of  feminine  grace,  failed  to  appeal  to  us 
as  did  the  Venus  della  Coscia  in  the  Naples  Museum, 
and  is,  of  course,  not  to  be  mentioned  in  the  same 
breath  with  the  lovely  armless  lady  of  the  Louvre. 

104 


ANTIQUITIES  AND    ORANGE-BLOSSOMS 

After  spending  two  hours  in  the  museum,  Zelphine 
said  that  she  had  seen  enough  for  one  day,  and  that 
her  mind  refused  to  grasp  anything  more.  We  usu- 
ally find  that  this  is  quite  time  enough  to  spend  in  any 
picture-gallery  or  museum,  and  I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  people  who  stay  longer  wear  themselves  out  to 
no  purpose. 

Angela  suggested  that  as  we  were  so  near  the 
Church  of  Ara  Coeli,  it  would  be  well  to  go  to  see  the 
wonderful  Bambino.  Ludovico  prepared  us  for  some 
disappointment  by  telling  us  that  the  most  interesting 
time  to  visit  this  church  is  during  the  Epiphany, 
when  the  Bambino  lies  in  a  manger  and  little  children 
come  here  and  recite  poems  in  its  honor.  But  as  a 
Christmas  visit  was  only  a  remote  possibility,  we 
concluded  to  climb  up  to  this  church,  hung  like  an 
eagle's  nest  upon  the  precipitous  rock,  and  well  named 
the  "  Altar  of  Heaven."  Zelphine  quite  forgot  her 
fatigue  when  she  read  in  her  guide-book  that  it  was  in 
this  church  that  Edward  Gibbon  first  conceived  the 
idea  of  writing  his  "  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman 
Empire,"  while  Ludovico,  by  way  of  giving  us  some- 
thing cheerful  to  think  of,  told  us  that  at  the  foot 
of  the  steps  Tiberius  Gracchus  and  Cola  di  Rienzi 
were  both  slain  by  their  nobles.  There  is  a  statue  of 
Rienzi  in  the  piazza  below,  and  above  is  that  won- 

105 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 


derful  group  of  the  horse-taming  Dioscuri,  your 
copies  of  which  have  always  interested  me  so  much. 
A  curious  and  most  unromantic  association  with  these 
steps  is  that  here  the  monks  of  the  Ara  Cceli,  who  were 
famous  dentists,  used  to  perform  their  hideous  but 
useful  operations,  out  in  the  open,  before  the  eyes  of 
the  passer-by.  It  appears  that  the  Romans  of  this 
time  were  denied  the  alleviating  circumstance  of  en- 
during their  miseries  in  private.  Zelphine,  who  has  a 
pleasant  habit  of  counting  her  blessings,  finds  just 
here  another  reason  for  offering  up  thanks  that  she 
lives  in  this  year  of  grace  1904  rather  than  in  that 
ancient  and  less  comfortable  period. 

As  the  steps  are  many  and  the  sun  was  hot  we  were 
warm  and  out  of  breath  when  we  reached  the  top, 
and  were  glad  of  the  coolness  and  peace  that  we  found 
inside.  I  gave  Angela  an  admonitory  look  before 
the  Bambino  was  displayed,  fearing  that  she  might 
do  or  say  something  to  hurt  Ludovico's  feelings.  As 
it  happened,  however,  he  seemed  to  care  even  less 
about  it  than  we  did,  although  he  told  us,  with  his 
usual  simplicity  and  directness,  that  "  il  Santissimo 
Bambino,"  as  he  calls  it,  is  carefully  guarded,  not 
on  account  of  its  rich  clothing  and  jewels,  but  because 
a  woman  once  formed  the  design  of  appropriating  to 

herself  the  baby  image  and  its  benefits.     "  She  had 

106 


ANTIQUITIES  AND    ORANGE-BLOSSOMS 

another  bambino  prepared,  of  the  same  size  and  gen- 
eral appearance  as  this,"  said  Ludovico,  looking  at 
the  fresh-colored,  richly  dressed  doll.  "  She  pre- 
tended to  be  ill,  and  so  got  possession  of  the  Santis- 
simo.  She  dressed  the  false  image  in  the  garments  of 
the  true  Bambino,  and  sent  it  back  to  Ara  Coeli.  That 
night  the  most  remarkable  thing  happened :  the  monks 
were  awakened  by  a  wild  ringing  of  bells  at  the  west 
door  of  the  church,  and  what  should  they  find  there 
but  the  little,  shivering,  naked  figure  of  the  Santissimo 
Bambino,  in  the  wind  and  rain !  Of  course,  the  false 
bambino  was  sent  back  to  its  owner,  and  now  the  San- 
tissimo is  never  taken  away  from  the  church  unat- 
tended. This  is  easy  enough,  as  the  Bambino  has  its 
own  carriage,  coachman,  and  footman,  and  makes  its 
visits  to  the  sick  in  great  state." 

I  glanced  at  Angela.  Amusement  and  incredulity 
were  all  too  plainly  visible  on  that  fair  young  face,  so 
I  hastened  to  suggest  that  we  look  at  some  of  the  beau- 
tiful tombs.  There  are  several  by  Donatello  and  the 
Cosmati  so  exquisitely  sculptured  that  they  alone 
repay  a  visit  to  the  church.  From  the  terrace  outside 
we  looked  down  on  the  Forum  below  us,  where  to-day 
a  great  mass  of  blue  iris  flowers  were  waving  and 
dancing  in  the  breeze  under  the  very  shadow  of  the 
three  columns  of  the  Temple  of  Castor  and  Pollux. 

107 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 

Ludovico  suggested  our  going  to  the  Tarpeian  Rock, 
which  is  part  of  this  precipitous  hill,  if  we  were  not 
too  tired.  No,  we  were  not  too  tired ;  the  many  steps  of 
the  Ara  Coeli  seemed  to  have  brought  positive  refresh- 
ment to  Zelphine,  who  announced  herself  ready  for 
a  new  start,  and  so,  through  delightful  winding  ways 
known  only  to  the  initiated,  Ludovico  led  us  to  the 
garden  from  which  we  looked  down  upon  the  Tarpeian 
Hock. 

Do  you  remember  the  picture  in  our  school  his- 
tories of  Marcus  Curtius  plunging  into  the  abyss? 
I  could  see  him,  in  my  mind's  eye,  boldly  riding  his 
white  horse  over  the  cliff  into  the  depths  of  the  chasm 
below,  until  Zelphine  reminded  me  that  it  was  not 
from  this  rock  that  Curtius  made  his  fatal  plunge, 
but  over  on  the  Forum,  where  the  chasm  closed  at 
once  upon  horse  and  rider.  I  cannot  even  find 
mention  of  our  old  friend  Marcus  Curtius;  he  is 
now  known  as  Mettius  Curtius.  Now  the  edge  of 
the  precipice  is  so  guarded  by  an  iron  railing  that 
it  would  be  quite  impossible  in  these  days  for  any 
one  to  leap  from  the  rock,  or  for  Donatello  to  push 
the  monk  over  into  the  street  below,  as  in  Haw- 
thorne's tale.  Mr.  Julian  Hawthorne  says  that  it  was 
to  a  moonlight  visit  to  the  Tarpeian  Rock  in  the  good 
company  of  Miss  Bremer  that  we  owe  this  scene  in 

108 


ANTIQUITIES  AND    ORANGE-BLOSSOMS 

"  The  Marble  Faun,"  the  "  most  visibly  tragic  of 
my  father's  writings."  A  pleasant-faced  young  wo- 
man who  unlocked  the  gate  of  the  garden  for  us  was 
evidently  bewitched  by  Angela's  charms,  as  she  did 
not  take  her  eyes  off  her  face  from  the  moment  that 
she  saw  her.  When  we  turned  to  leave  the  enclosure 
she  broke  from  one  of  the  trees  an  exquisite  branch  of 
orange-blossoms,  and  gave  it  to  Angela  with  a  charm- 
ing grace,  at  the  same  time  glancing  over  at  Ludovico 
in  a  manner  that  brought  the  color  to  his  face.  He 
laughed,  evidently  pleased,  and  said  a  few  words  to 
her  in  Italian,  after  which  she  bestowed  a  smaller 
cluster  of  the  fragrant  flowers  upon  him.  Angela,  all 
unconscious,  walked  on,  revelling  in  the  rich  perfume 
of  these  loveliest  of  blossoms. 

I  went  to  sleep  last  night  wondering  what  the  sweet- 
faced  custodian  of  the  grim  rock  had  said  to  Ludovico, 
and  what  his  reply  had  been,  and  so  fell  to  dreaming 
of  a  wedding ;  but  Zelphine  was  the  bride,  not  Angela, 
despite  her  orange-blossoms,  and  the  groom  was  a  cer- 
tain widower  who  pays  intermittent  attention  to  Zel- 
phine— intermittent  because  she  will  not  allow  him  to 
be  a  "  regular  steady,"  as  one  of  our  maids  used  to 
say  in  speaking  of  her  own  suitor. 

You  have  surely  heard  of  Walter  Leonard's  devo- 
tion to  Zelphine,  which  is  so  much  of  an  open  secret 

109 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 


among  her  friends  that  when  subjects  for  conversa- 
tion fail,  they  fall  back  with  ever  fresh  interest  upon 
speculations  as  to  whether  or  not  she  will  eventually 
accept  him  and  his  family  of  small  children.  Angela 
and  I  have  an  idea  that  she  left  home  in  order  to  avoid 
a  crisis  in  her  affairs,  and  when  she  looks  sad  or  tired, 
Angela  says  that  remorse  is  preying  upon  her  because 
of  the  motherless  condition  of  those  hapless  children. 
I  did  not  tell  Zelphine  about  my  dream,  because  it  is 
bad  luck  to  dream  about  a  marriage.  You  scorn  all 
such  fancies,  I  know,  but  she  is  really  superstitious, 
and  I  might  injure  Mr.  Leonard's  chances  if  I  should 
talk  just  now.  Angela  and  I  have  our  own  fun  out  of 
the  situation.  She  predicts  that  he  will  appear  in 
Venice,  which  surely  would  be  an  appropriate  place 
for  a  lover  to  make  his  entrance,  and  romantic  enough 
to  please  Zelphine.  This  is  only  idle  talk,  however, 
as  she  has  never  spoken  of  the  possibility  of  "Walter 
Leonard's  coming  over;  and  pray  do  forget  my  gossip. 
It  is  too  late,  and  I  am  quite  too  tired  to  rewrite  this 
part  of  my  letter.  I  know  you  of  old,  and  so  am  sure 
that  you  will  tell  no  tales. 

Sunday,   March  27th. 

This  is  a  gloriously  beautiful  day.  The  Spanish 
Steps  are  brilliant  in  the  sunshine,  with  more  flowers 
than  usual  on  the  stalls  at  the  base.  As  Sunday  is  a 

110 


ANTIQUITIES  AND    ORANGE-BLOSSOMS 

fete-day,  the  vendors  do  a  thriving  business.  And 
how  cheap  the  flowers  are!  One  may  have  all  the 
roses  one  can  carry,  for  a  franc  or  two!  Yet,  with 
the  idea  that  there  is  no  fixed  price  in  Italy,  travellers 
are  always  to  be  seen  at  the  stalls  outdoing  the 
Romans  themselves  in  their  efforts  to  cheapen  the 
flowers,  while  the  merchant  volubly  protests  that  his 
house  will  be  desolated  and  his  children  in  rags  if  he 
sells  his  roses  for  a  soldo  less  than  the  asking  price. 
A  few  artists'  models  are  still  to  be  found  sunning 
themselves  on  the  marble  steps  or  around  the  fountain 
of  the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  but  in  less  brilliant  array 
than  one  would  desire,  peasant  dress  being  as  little 
worn  in  Rome  as  in  Paris. 

To  go  to  St.  Peter's  seemed  the  thing  of  all  others 
to  do  to-day,  and  we  found  an  accommodating  tram 
waiting  for  us  in  the  Piazza  di  Spagna. 

They  tell  us  that  no  one  ever  realizes  the  vastness 
of  St.  Peter's  upon  a  first  visit.  However  this  may 
be,  it  seemed  immense  to  us,  outside  and  in.  One 
notices  first  Bernini's  great  colonnades  on  each  side 
of  the  basilica,  which,  with  its  facade,  form  a  hemi- 
cycle  with  the  Egyptian  obelisk  in  the  centre.  Be- 
hind the  church  is  the  monotonous  mass  of  the  Vat- 
ican buildings,  while  in  the  foreground  the  twin 
fountains  send  up  their  spires  of  feathery  spray. 

Ill 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 

Small  wonder  that  the  practical  and  thrifty  German 
Emperor  advised  them  to  turn  off  the  water.  "  Turn 
them  off  now, ' '  he  said,  after  admiring  the  beauty  of 
the  fountains.  "It's  a  pity  to  waste  so  much  wa- 
ter! "  But  these  fountains  of  Maderno's  have  played 
untiringly,  in  sunlight  and  shade,  by  moonlight  and 
starlight,  for  nearly  three  hundred  years.  Every- 
where in  Rome  one  hears  the  sound  of  flowing  water 
from  the  many  fountains.  In  the  Borghese  Gardens 
up  on  the  Pincio,  in  the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  down  in 
the  Piazza  Poli  where  the  great  Fountain  of  Trevi 
dashes  continually,  throwing  its  jets  d'eau  into  the 
great  basin  beneath,  over  in  the  Piazza  delle  Terme, 
near  the  railroad  station — on  all  sides  one  hears  the 
refreshing  sound  of  splashing,  leaping  water. 

We  wandered  about  the  great  basilica  as  if  in  a 
strange  city,  avoiding,  of  course,  the  several  chapels 
in  which  services  were  being  held,  and  stopping  long 
before  the  Chapel  of  the  Pieta,  in  which  Michael 
Angelo's  beautiful  marble  of  the  Sorrowing  Mother 
with  the  dead  Christ  upon  her  knees  is  enshrined. 
From  the  gorgeous  mosaics  in  Michael  Angelo's  dome 
and  from  the  rich  and  elaborate  tombs  of  many  popes 
we  turned  almost  with  relief  to  the  strong  and  simple 
Rezzonico  monument,  upon  which  Canova  has  placed 
two  great  lions  at  the  feet  of  Pope  Clement  XIII., 

112 


ANTIQUITIES  AND  ORANGE-BLOSSOMS 

while  in  sharp  contrast  is  a  graceful,  youthful  fig- 
ure, the  Genius  of  Death,  holding  a  torch  reversed. 
Zelphine  and  I  think  this  the  most  beautiful  example 
of  Canova's  work  that  we  have  seen  anywhere.  An- 
other of  the  monuments  that  interested  us  is  that 
erected  by  George  IV.  to  the  memory  of  the  unfor- 
tunate princes  of  the  house  of  Stuart,  James  III., 
Charles  Edward,  and  Henry,  Cardinal  of  York. 

Zelphine,  who  adores  the  Stuarts,  almost  wept  over 
this  tomb,  although  she  could  not  help  smiling  a  bit 
at  the  high-sounding  titles  engraved  upon  the  monu- 
ment to  Maria  Clementina  Sobieski,  the  wife  of  the 
second  Pretender,  whose  name  is  here  inscribed  as 
"  Queen  of  Great  Britain,  France,  and  Ireland." 

We  both  enjoyed  Stendhal's  trenchant  comment 
upon  the  post-mortem  honors  paid  by  the  Hanoverian 
king  to  the  Stuart  princes :  ' '  George  IV.,  fidele  a  sa 
reputation  du  gentleman  le  plus  accompli  des  trois 
royaumes,  a  voulu  honorer  la  cendre  des  princes  mal- 
heureuses  que  de  leur  vivant  il  eut  envoy 6s  a  1'echa- 
faud  s'ils  fussent  tombes  en  son  pouvoir. " 

The  temporary  tomb  of  the  late  Pope  is  in  this  part 
of  St.  Peter's,  near  the  monument  of  Innocent  III. 
The  permanent  resting-place  of  Leo  XIII.  is  to  be  in 
St.  John  Lateran ;  for  this  tomb  Tadolini  is  preparing 
a  magnificent  monument. 

8  113 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 

"We  drove  from  St.  Peter's,  by  the  Tiber,  passing 
the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo,  where  Ludovico  took  us  yes- 
terday to  show  us  the  pitiful  little  cell  in  which  poor 
Beatrice  Cenci  was  imprisoned.  We  had  already  seen 
her  lovely,  sad  picture  at  the  Barberini  Palace.  The 
exquisite,  haunting  beauty  of  the  Cenci  portrait  is 
quite  indescribable.  As  Charles  Dickens  says, 
"  Through  the  transcendent  sweetness  and  beauty  of 
her  face  there  is  something  shining  out  that  haunts 
me.  I  see  it  now  as  I  see  this  paper  or  my  pen." 

This  afternoon  we  drove  for  an  hour  or  more  in 
the  Borghese  Gardens,  after  which  we  went  to  the 
evening  service  at  the  American  Church  in  the  Via 
Nazionale,  which  naturally  looked  somewhat  cold  and 
plain  after  the  gorgeous  color  and  decoration  of  St. 
Peter's.  It  was,  however,  restful  and  homelike  to  sit 
there  and  listen  to  the  beautiful  service  of  our  own 
church. 

Zelphine  says  that  Catholic  visitors  in  Rome  are 
especially  fortunate,  as  for  them  the  path  of  duty 
and  the  path  of  pleasure  lie  side  by  side,  leading  them 
always  into  the  most  beautiful  churches  and  giving 
them  the  satisfying  combination  of  art  and  religion. 
I  entirely  agree  with  her,  having  often  felt  that  in  a 
service  in  Westminster  Abbey  an  element  of  adven- 
ture was  added  to  the  act  of  devotion.  I  think  it  was 

114 


ANTIQUITIES  AND   ORANGE-BLOSSOMS 

you  who  told  me  of  a  Scotchwoman  who  considered  a 
service  in  the  abbey  "  among  the  images  "  too  much 
of  a  diversion  for  a  Sabbath  day.  I  should  think  that 
good  Catholic  travellers  might  have  somewhat  the 
same  feeling  about  a  great  ceremonial  at  St.  Peter's. 
In  the  Borghese  Gardens,  the  shadows  under  the 
ilex-trees  were  most  lovely  this  afternoon,  the  sunshine 
filtering  through  the  branches  here  and  there,  fleck- 
ing the  green  sward  with  spots  of  light,  and  bringing 
out  the  color  of  the  anemones  which  grow  here  in 
such  profusion.  We  could  readily  fancy  Miriam  and 
Donatello  dancing  in  this  sylvan  shade,  although  no 
vagrant  musicians  were  waking  the  echoes  among  the 
leafy  coverts,  no  herdsman  in  goatskin  breeches,  no 
peasants  from  the  Campagna,  or  pretty  contadine 
appeared,  to  add  a  touch  of  local  color  to  the  natural 
beauties  of  the  scene. 


115 


VIII 
VIA  APPIA 


Monday,  March  28th. 

LUDOVICO  proposed  that  we  should  take  the  long- 
talked-of  drive  along  the  Via  Appia  this  beautiful 
afternoon.  Knowing  Angela's  objection  to  subterran- 
ean excursions,  he  discreetly  said  nothing  about  the 
Catacombs,  although  I  realized  well  that  they  were 
uppermost  in  his  mind,  and  felt  that  I  might  safely 
trust  a  bit  of  diplomacy  to  this  clever  little  Italian. 

As  we  are  living  in  the  north-eastern  part  of  Rome 
and  the  Via  Appia  is  in  the  southern  part,  leading 
toward  the  Pontine  Marshes  and  ancient  Brundusium, 
we  had  a  long  drive  across  the  city.  We  drove  through 
the  Corso  as  far  as  the  Piazza  Colonna,  with  its  tower- 
ing column  erected  by  the  Senate  and  the  people  in 
honor  of  your  hero  Marcus  Aurelius,  and  then  by 
smaller  streets  and  squares  to  the  Porta  Capena.  Of 
this  gate,  which  is  associated  with  so  many  interesting 
events,  only  fragmentary  ruins  remain.  Near  it  were 
once  grouped  temples  of  Mars  and  Hercules  and  the 
tomb  of  the  young  sister  of  the  Horatii,  who  was 

116 


VIA  APPIA 

betrothed  to  one  of  the  Curiatii.  Ludovieo  repeated 
the  sad  little  story,  which  we  had  all  read  in  our 
school-days,  of  the  girl  coming  out  to  meet  her  brother 
Horatius  at  the  Porta  Capena.  When  she  saw  the 
cloak  wrought  by  her  own  hands  borne  by  Horatius, 
she  wept,  as  any  other  girl  would  have  done,  knowing 
that  her  lover  was  dead ;  upon  which  the  cruel  Hora- 
tius stabbed  her  to  the  heart,  crying,  "  So  perish  the 
Roman  maiden  who  shall  weep  her  country's  ene- 
my! " 

To  see  the  place  where  this  sad  scene  was  enacted 
and  the  site  of  the  grave  of  the  hapless  maiden  made 
it  seem  as  real  as  if  it  had  occurred  last  year  instead 
of — how  many  hundred  years  ago?  We  are  realiz- 
ing, as  never  before,  what  an  old  world  this  is.  Even 
now,  out  in  the  Forum,  they  are  opening  the  graves  of 
men  and  women  who  lived  before  Romulus,  as  if  the 
Rome  of  Numa  and  the  Caesars  was  not  old  enough  for 
all  antiquarian  uses! 

The  old  Romans,  like  the  ancient  Egyptians,  seem 
to  have  had  no  shrinking  from  keeping  death  well  in 
view,  as  this  Via  Appia,  which  was  the  patrician  ceme- 
tery of  Rome,  was  also  a  military  highway  and  a  pleas- 
ure-drive, and  from  it  still  branches  a  road  leading  to 
the  race-course.  Indeed,  there  is  nothing  dismal  about 
this  ' '  way  of  tombs, ' '  for  the  road  is  wide,  paved  with 

117 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 

large  blocks  of  stone,  and  flanked  by  vineyards.  On 
the  right  are  the  Baths  of  Caracalla,  on  the  left  are 
the  tombs  of  the  Scipios,  while  the  long  bridge-like 
ruins  of  the  old  aqueduct  rise  here  and  there  above 
the  level  of  the  Campagna,  and  beyond,  framing  all, 
are  the  mountains.  Flowers  are  blooming  along  the 
sides  of  the  road,  among  the  tombs  and  over  them. 
Angela  and  Ludovico  gathered  a  large  bunch  of  cycla- 
men and  the  purple  lady 's-slipper  orchids.  Wherever 
there  is  an  unsightly  stone  or  a  bit  of  broken  wall, 
Nature  has  generously  covered  it  with  a  drapery  of 
green  vines  or  white  banksia  roses. 

Here,  out  in  the  sunshine  and  among  the  flowers, 
are  the  tombs  of  the  grand  old  heathen,  while  the  good 
Christians  sleep  in  the  dismal  subterranean  Cata- 
combs. Is  not  this  another  example  of  the  way  in 
which  the  ancient  pagan  city  dominates  the  Rome  of 
later  times? 

A  little  way  beyond  the  fine  tombs  of  the  Scipios 
we  passed  through  the  Arch  of  Drusus,  with  its  eques- 
trian statue  and  trophies,  on  whose  summit  is  still  a 
bit  of  the  aqueduct  by  which  Caracalla  carried  water 
to  his  baths.  A  little  beyond  the  Porta  San  Sebas- 
tiano  we  came  to  the  small  Church  of  Domine  Quo 
Vadis.  You  may  remember  the  story  which  led  to  its 
foundation.  During  a  great  persecution  of  the 

118 


VIA  APPIA 


Christians,  under  Nero,  some  of  St.  Peter's  converts 
and  devoted  friends  besought  him  not  to  expose  his 
life  by  remaining  in  Rome.  Peter  finally  listened  to 
their  counsels  and  fled  along  the  Appian  Way;  but 
about  two  miles  from  the  gate  he  was  met  by  a  vision 
of  the  Saviour,  journeying  towards  the  city.  Filled 
with  amazement,  Peter  exclaimed,  "  Domine,  quo 
vadis?  "  "  Lord,  whither  goest  Thou?  "  To  this 
question  his  Master  replied,  sadly,  "  I  go  to  Rome  to 
be  crucified  a  second  time,"  and  vanished.  Peter, 
accepting  this  as  a  sign  that  he  was  to  submit  to  the 
sufferings  that  menaced  him,  turned  back  to  Rome 
and  met  his  fate.  Hence  the  little  yellow  church  of 
Domine  Quo  Vadis,  which  was  built  to  mark  the 
sacred  spot. 

We  left  the  carriage  and  entered  the  church,  as 
Zelphine  wished  to  see  the  sacred  footprints  upon  the 
stone  pavement;  but  Ludovico  told  her  that  those 
impressions  were  only  copies,  the  originals  being  at 
the  Church  of  St.  Sebastian.  We  walked  on  and  on 
along  the  Via  Appia,  glad  to  tread  the  same  stones 
that  had  been  pressed  by  the  feet  of  St.  Peter,  St. 
Paul,  and  so  many  great  ones  of  the  earth. 

We  were  so  much  absorbed  in  the  associations  of  the 
road,  and  had  such  unbounded  confidence  in  our 
young  guide,  that  we  did  not  even  ask  where  we  were 

119 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 

going,  although  I  suspected  that  Ludovico  was  about 
to  enact  his  coup  d'etat  for  Angela's  benefit.  Through 
a  gateway  shaded  by  cypresses  we  followed  him  into  a 
rose-garden,  with  a  chapel  to  the  left  and  a  booth 
opposite,  where  were  displayed  a  number  of  odd  and 
discordant  relics.  Here  Ludovico  stopped  to  buy  some 
tickets,  and  then  we  descended  many  steps  into  dark- 
ness made  somewhat  visible  by  the  light  of  curious 
little  spiral  tapers,  cerini,  which  we  carried. 

Light  seemed  to  dawn  upon  Angela's  mind  when 
the  taper  was  handed  to  her  at  the  entrance ;  she 
turned  and  shook  her  finger  at  Ludovico,  exclaiming, 
"  The  Catacombs!  "  I  felt  at  first  that  it  was  not 
quite  fair  to  have  beguiled  the  child  here,  against  her 
will,  to  this  dismal  home  of  the  dead,  which  cannot 
fail  to  impress  a  sensitive  nature.  Afterwards,  how- 
ever, Angela  was  so  much  interested  in  the  little 
chapels  in  which  the  early  Christians  worshipped,  with 
the  paintings  on  the  walls  and  the  symbols  of  the  fish, 
the  dove,  and  the  anchor  over  many  of  the  tombs,  that 
she  quite  forgot  her  terror. 

The  guide  explained  that  these  Catacombs  of  St. 
Calixtus  include  several  columbaria,  there  being  forty 
separate  catacombs  extending  under  the  city,  cover- 
ing, according  to  Michele  de  Rossi's  calculations,  an 
area  of  615  acres.  The  city  of  the  dead  is  far  greater 

120 


VIA  APPIA 


than  the  city  of  the  living;  but  this  is  not  to  be  won- 
dered at,  considering  the  population  of  Rome  under 
the  Caesars  and  the  large  number  of  converts  to  Chris- 
tianity. 

We  were  surprised  to  find  the  air  mild,  not  chill  and 
damp  as  one  would  expect  in  underground  passages. 
Although  there  are  wires  for  electric  lights  in  some  of 
the  corridors,  the  Catacombs  are  not  lighted  by  elec- 
tricity. It  was  introduced  five  years  ago,  but  was 
found  to  be  impracticable,  as  the  wires  were  soon 
injured  by  rust;  hence  we  were  spared  this  incon- 
gruity. Despite  the  many  tales  we  had  read  of  trav- 
ellers being  lost  in  the  Catacombs,  we  never  once 
thought  of  the  danger,  although  our  guide  told  us 
more  than  once  that  it  would  be  well  for  us  to  keep 
close  together. 

He  took  us  into  a  chapel  containing  the  tombs  of 
some  of  the  early  martyred  popes,  as  St.  Fabian,  St. 
Lucius,  and  St.  Sextus.  In  some  of  these  chapels,  or 
cubicula,  are  beautiful  inscriptions  to  Pope  Damasus, 
whose  labor  of  love  it  was  to  restore  and  preserve  these 
tombs  of  the  Christians.  At  the  end  of  a  long  inscrip- 
tion over  the  door  of  one  of  the  largest  of  these 
sepulchral  chambers,  which  records  that  here  lie 
heaped  together  a  number  of  the  holy  ones,  the  good 
Pope  has  humbly  added: 

121 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 

"  Here  I,  Damasus,  wished  to  have  laid  my  limbs, 
But  feared  to  disturb  the  holy  ashes  of  the  saints." 

We  then  entered  a  chamber  with  an  air-shaft  above, 
like  most  of  the  cubieula,  where,  on  the  walls,  were  a 
number  of  Byzantine  paintings  of  St.  Urban,  St.  Ceci- 
lia, and  a  head  of  Christ.  The  guide  told  us  that  this 
chamber  contained  the  remains  of  St.  Cecilia  until 
they  were  removed  to  the  Church  of  Santa  Cecilia  in 
Trastevere.  Without  a  word  of  warning,  Ludovico 
drew  us  across  the  room  to  a  niche  in  the  wall,  where 
we  saw,  lying  upon  her  side,  the  loveliest  of  girlish 
figures.  The  first  impression,  in  the  semi-obscurity, 
with  all  the  light  falling  on  the  recumbent  figure,  was 
that  of  a  veiled  woman  asleep. 

' '  Santa  Cecilia !  ' '  said  Ludovico,  in  a  hushed  voice. 
Zelphine  bent  forward  as  if  ready  to  fall  on  her  knees, 
when  the  official  guide  broke  the  reverent  silence  by 
reciting  in  a  sing-song  tone,  but  in  quite  compre- 
hensible English: 

"  This  rich  Roman  lady  was  sentenced  to  death  by 
the  prefect  of  Rome  because  she  would  not  sacrifice  to 
idols.  After  trying  to  smother  the  lady  in  her  own 
bath,  but  not  succeeding,  because  the  saints  were 
watching  over  her,  a  lictor  was  sent  to  cut  off  her 
head ;  but  the  saints  took  the  strength  out  of  his  arm 
and  he  only  wounded  her,  after  which  she  lived  three 

122 


VIA  APPIA 

days  preaching  to  the  people.  Step  nearer  and  you 
will  see  the  wound  on  the  lady's  neck.  It  is  partially 
covered  by  a  gold  necklace. ' ' 

In  the  sixteenth  century  the  tomb  of  St.  Cecilia  was 
opened,  and  her  embalmed  body  was  found,  beautiful 
and  perfect,  as  if  asleep  in  her  own  bed  rather  than 
lying  in  a  tomb.  Pope  Clement  III.  and  all  Rome 
went  to  the  Catacombs  to  look  upon  the  saint,  and  Ste- 
fano  Maderno,  the  greatest  sculptor  of  his  time,  was 
called  upon  to  model  the  marble  statue  of  the  lovely 
sleeping  saint.  Maderno 's  original  statue  of  St.  Ceci- 
lia we  had  seen  in  the  Church  of  St.  Cecilia  in  Traste- 
vere,  and  also  the  artist 's  inscription,  in  which  he  says 
that  he  has  modelled  her  in  the  very  same  posture 
of  body  as  that  in  which  she  was  found  lying  incor- 
rupt in  her  tomb.  Beautiful  as  is  the  marble  in  the 
church,  it  failed  to  impress  us  as  did  this  replica  in 
the  appropriate  setting  of  the  cubiculum. 

Tears  were  in  our  eyes  as  we  turned  away,  and  I 
heard  Angela  say  to  Ludovico,  in  her  softest  tone, 
"  It  is  the  most  real  thing  I  have  seen  in  Rome !  " 

"  Ludovico  has  good  reason  to  be  pleased  with  the 
success  of  his  strategy, ' '  whispered  Zelphine,  and  then, 
wishing  to  carry  away  undisturbed  this  exquisite 
memory  of  St.  Cecilia,  we  made  our  way  out  toward 
the  open,  where  we  found  our  carriage  awaiting  us. 

123 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 

We  were  all  very  subdued,  for  pleasure-seekers, 
and  were  silent  as  we  drove  on  past  the  vast  tomb  of 
Cascilia,  the  daughter  of  Metellus  and  the  beloved  wife 
of  the  younger  Crassus.  Above  the  inscription  are 
Gallic  trophies  which  belonged  to  the  elder  Crassus, 
who  was  Caesar's  legate  in  Gaul.  The  tomb  itself,  a 
great  round  tower  seventy  feet  in  diameter,  seems 
more  like  a  fortress  than  a  tomb,  and  we  were  not 
surprised  to  learn  that  the  monument  of  this  noble 
Roman  lady  had  been  used  as  a  fortress  in  the  thir- 
teenth century. 

Beyond  this  tomb,  whose  mystery  and  charm  have 
inspired  many  a  poet,  the  natural  beauties  of  the 
Appian  Way  begin,  as  the  vineyard  walls  no  longer 
interrupt  the  more  extended  view  over  the  Latin  plain, 
with  its  ruined  castles,  villages,  and  aqueducts.  When 
we  had  driven  past  the  fifth  mile-stone,  near  which 
are  the  tombs  of  the  Horatii  and  the  vast  ruins  of  the 
Villa  of  Commodus,  we  were  warned  by  a  delicate,  vio- 
let mist  which  was  rising  over  the  Campagna  that  it 
was  time  to  turn  towards  Rome.  Good  Romans  tell  us 
that  their  city  is  perfectly  healthful  now,  since  the 
marshes  have  been  drained,  and  so  it  seems  to  be ;  but 
it  is  always  a  question  whether  it  is  wise  to  linger 
near  the  Campagna  about  sunset,  as  we  usually  notice 
a  chill  dampness  in  the  air  at  this  time. 

124 


VIA  APPIA 

Thursday,  March  31st. 

Mrs.  M.,  my  old  friend  Rosalie  L.,  has  come  from 
Sorrento  to  spend  Holy  Week  and  Easter  with  us. 
Dr.  M.  has  a  professional  engagement  which  will 
detain  him  for  a  week  or  ten  days,  and  in  the  interim 
we  four  are  visiting  churches  most  assiduously.  There 
are  interesting  Tenebrae  services  in  nearly  all  the 
churches  this  week.  This  rainy  afternoon  we  went  to 
Santa  Maria  Maggiore,  which  is  one  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful and  harmonious  buildings  we  have  seen.  The 
mosaics  are  very  rich,  and  the  Borghese  Chapel  is 
gorgeous  with  precious  marbles  and  alabaster.  Here 
above  an  altar  of  jasper  and  lapis  lazuli  is  the  famous 
picture  of  the  Virgin  said  to  have  been  painted  by  St. 
Luke.  It  is  much  revered,  not  only  on  account  of  its 
origin,  but  because  of  its  having,  according  to  tradi- 
tion, stopped  the  plague  in  Rome  and  brought  about 
the  overthrow  of  the  Moorish  dominion  in  Spain. 

At  St.  Peter 's,  where  we  went  later  in  the  afternoon 
to  hear  the  fine  music,  a  lock  of  the  Virgin 's  hair  was 
exhibited,  a  piece  of  the  true  cross,  and  St.  Veronica 's 
handkerchief.  I  trust  you  will  never  cross-examine 
me  upon  the  color  of  the  Virgin 's  hair,  and  to  forestall 
any  such  inquiries,  I  here  frankly  confess  that  I  did 
not  really  see  it,  as  the  sacred  relics  were  displayed 
from  a  high  balcony  over  the  great  statue  of  St.  Veron- 

125 


ITALIAN    DAYS  AND  WAYS 

ica.  The  handkerchief  we  did  see,  and  the  face  of  the 
Saviour  on  it,  which  was  distinct.  The  basilica,  near 
the  high  altar,  was  crowded ;  poor  people  and  soldiers 
were  kneeling  beside  richly  dressed  Roman  ladies; 
many  of  the  forestieri,  like  ourselves,  were  standing 
about,  gazing  at  the  strange  sights,  and  some  of  them, 
I  regret  to  say,  were  talking. 

Rosalie,  Zelphine,  and  I  were  interested,  as  indeed 
we  always  are,  in  watching  the  poor  people,  who  are 
so  attentive  and  devout,  so  much  in  earnest,  coming  to 
their  churches  as  to  a  home.  Groups  of  little  children 
came  in  holding  each  other's  hands,  some  of  them 
bringing  with  them  little  toddling  things  of  two  and 
three.  The  face  of  one  little  girl  I  shall  never  forget, 
she  was  so  exquisitely  beautiful,  with  the  loveliness 
of  childhood  and  yet  with  a  womanly  seriousness  in 
her  dark  eyes.  Rosalie  and  I  imagined  Dante's  Bea- 
trice looking  something  like  this  little  girl,  and  could 
understand  his  cherishing  in  his  heart  the  image  of 
that  woman-child  all  his  days. 

Easter  Sunday,  April  3d. 

We  are  glad  to  have  a  bright  Easter  Day,  and  enjoy 
it  the  more  because  Holy  Week  has  been  dark  and 
rainy.  We  went  to  the  English  Church  on  the  Via  del 
Babuino  in  the  morning,  and  in  the  afternoon  to  St. 

126 


VIA  APPIA 

Peter's,  to  witness  a  procession  of  the  priests  which 
was  somewhat  disappointing.  We  then  turned  into 
the  Pincio,  which  was  a  blaze  of  color  with  Judas- 
trees,  wistaria,  roses,  and  anemones.  All  Home  was 
in  evidence.  This  is  one  of  the  few  days  in  the  year 
when  the  King  and  Queen  drive  out  together  in  state. 
Angela  and  I  were  too  late  to  see  them,  but  Zelphine 
was  more  fortunate,  as  she  passed  them  when  she  was 
driving  with  her  cousins.  She  thought  the  Queen 
exceedingly  pretty,  youthful,  and  charming. 

The  well-to-do  people  were  en  voiture  drawn  up  in 
line,  the  poor  on  foot  crowding  the  walks  and  benches 
near  the  music-stand,  where  the  band  was  playing 
merrily;  a  good-natured,  cheerful  crowd,  and  gayer, 
it  seemed  to  me,  than  the  same  class  of  people  in  Paris. 
Nothing  on  the  Pincio  is  more  picturesque  than  the 
nurses  in  their  full  skirts  of  gay  colors,  with  their 
luxuriant  black  hair  decorated  with  bright  ribbons 
and  gold  combs  and  pins.  They  look  very  stylish 
carrying  the  aristocratic  bambini  on  pillows.  We  are 
told  that  these  unfortunate  babies  are  still  swaddled 
like  those  in  Delia  Robbia's  terra-cottas. 

In  the  meadows  adjoining  the  Borghese  Gardens 
the  students  of  the  different  colleges  were  playing 
ball.  Do  you  wonder  that  Italian  immigrants  find  our 
Sundays  insupportably  dull  ?  Here  it  is  a  fete-day  all 

127 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 

the  year,  and  to-day  being  the  feast  of  feasts,  the 
people  have  come  out  to  enjoy  themselves  in  the  sun- 
shine. "What  would  your  father  think  of  it  all,  Allan, 
and  your  Scotch  grandmother?  I  could  feel  the 
shadow  of  her  displeasure  darkening  the  sunshine  as 
I  stood  in  the  midst  of  this  joyous  crowd,  and  yet, 
after  all,  it  seems  an  innocent  way  of  spending  a 
beautiful  Sunday  afternoon. 


128 


IX 

TU   ES   PETRUS 


VIA  SISTINA,  April  7th. 

A  GRAND  and  elaborate  Gregorian  ceremonial  is  to 
be  held  in  St.  Peter's  on  Monday,  the  eleventh,  and,  as 
you  may  imagine,  tout  le  monde,  the  small  world  as 
well  as  the  great,  is  rushing  after  tickets.  We  were 
able  to  secure  the  white  entrance  cards  from  our 
banker  on  the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  with  which  we  were 
quite  satisfied  until  Miss  Dean,  the  charming  Irish 
lady  who  sits  next  to  me  at  the  table  d'hote,  showed 
me  a  yellow  biglietto,  which  assures  her  a  seat  in  the 
tribunes.  Since  then  we  have  been  filled  with  envy, 
hatred,  malice,  and  all  uncharitableness.  We  did  not 
at  all  understand  the  difference  between  the  white 
ingresso  cards  and  the  yellow  until  she  explained  it, 
with  a  delicious  rolling  of  the  r  in  ingresso  such  as 
even  Angela,  with  all  her  aptitude  for  mimicking,  is 
unable  to  attain.  The  white  tickets  simply  give  one  an 
entree  to  the  church,  the  yellow,  which  come  only  to 
the  favored  few,  are  for  seats  in  the  tribunes.  Recall- 
ing Madame  Waddington's  description  of  her  own 
9  129 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


sufferings  and  those  of  the  other  diplomatic  ladies  at 
the  coronation  of  the  Czar  Alexander  III.,  we  earn- 
estly hope  that  we  may  be  so  fortunate  as  to  have  seats 
in  one  of  the  tribunes. 

Ludovico,  who  has  been  rushing  hither  and  thither 
for  several  days,  trying  to  secure  tickets  for  us 
through  his  godfather,  who  is  one  of  the  Pope 's  cham- 
berlains, came  in  this  evening,  his  face  flushed  with 
the  joy  of  victory.  I  knew  that  he  had  secured  the 
coveted  biglietti,  as  soon  as  I  saw  him.  There  was, 
however,  a  shade  of  embarrassment  in  his  manner 
which  I  could  not  quite  understand.  The  reason 
became  evident  when  Ludovico  pulled  two  tickets, 
instead  of  three,  out  of  his  pocket,  explaining  with 
much  hesitation  that  it  was  impossible  to  get  more 
than  two  even  from  his  official  godfather,  so  great 
was  the  demand.  We  all  three  made  haste  to  say, 
with  proper  politeness,  that  it  was  a  great  deal  to  have 
two  tickets  for  such  an  occasion  and  to  ask  where 
was  his  own;  to  which  he  replied  that  there  were  no 
places  in  the  tribunes  for  men.  Did  we  not  see  that 
printed  on  the  biglietti?  He  would  go,  of  course,  and 
stand  about,  or  secure  a  perch  on  one  of  the  great 
columns. 

Although  we  were  perfectly  civil  in  our  expressions 
to  Ludovico,  and,  I  trust,  sufficiently  grateful  for  a 

130 


TU  ES   PETRUS 


favor  to  which  we  could  lay  no  possible  claim,  we 
were  wondering  how  we  could  make  two  tickets  answer 
for  three  women,  all  equally  anxious  to  see  the  great 
ceremonies.  Unlike  the  dame  who  was  expected  to 
fry  her  ten  fish  in  nine  separate  pans  at  the  same 
moment,  we  were  unwilling  "  to  give  it  up,"  and  so 
continued  to  discuss  the  problem  after  we  went  to  our 
rooms  that  night.  Zelphine  and  I  said  most  decidedly 
that  Angela  should  go,  at  which  she  opened  her  eyes 
wide  and  asked  why,  adding,  "  I  was  always  told 
that  the  older  children  should  go  everywhere  and  the 
younger  ones  stay  at  home,  on  the  same  principle  as 
the  helping  at  table.  Being  one  of  the  older  children, 
this  has  always  seemed  to  me  a  perfectly  fair  arrange- 
ment, and  I  have  never  doubted  the  propriety  of  hav- 
ing my  younger  brothers  eat  the  drumsticks. ' ' 

"  In  the  first  place,"  said  Zelphine,  in  her  most 
judicial  manner,  "  as  you  are  so  much  younger,  you 
will  probably  live  longer  to  tell  the  tale." 

:'  I  don't  think  that  is  much  of  an  argument," 
replied  Angela  stoutly.  "  The  young  occasionally  die, 
and  you  a^e  neither  of  you  very  aged,  and  you  are 
both  much  giddier  and  more  frivolous  than  I.  Indeed, 
I  sometimes  wonder " 

You  will  never  know  the  cause  of  Angela's  wonder, 
because  I  interrupted  her: 

131 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


' '  After  all,  don 't  you  think  we  had  better  consider 
Ludovico  in  this  matter?  Is  it  likely  that  he  would 
travel  all  over  Rome  for  days  to  get  tickets  for  two 
old — er  women  ?  ' '  I  started  to  say  ' '  old, ' '  but  I  saw 
Zelphine  wince,  and  so  compromised  on  "  older." 
"  It  is  quite  natural  that  a  youth  like  Ludovico  should 
wish  to  please  the  young  lady  of  the  party,  and  I 
must  confess  that  although  he  handed  the  tickets  to 
me,  he  looked  at  Angela  for  a  smile  of  thanks,  which 
she  never  vouchsafed  him. ' ' 

"  It  wasn't  so  very  much  to  do,"  said  Angela, 
laughingly,  but  with  a  tone  of  yielding  in  her  voice. 
' '  He  had  only  to  go  to  his  godfather  and  ask  him  for 
some  tickets. ' ' 

"  Ungrateful  child,"  I  exclaimed,  "  is  there  any 
service  that  you  would  consider  too  great  to  be  per- 
formed at  your  behest  ?  I  firmly  believe  that  if  Ludo- 
vico should  bring  you  a  wagon-load  of  roses  from 
Queen  Margherita's  own  garden  you  would  simply 
raise  your  eyebrows  and  say,  '  How  charming!  I 
never  had  quite  so  many  roses ;  I  hope  you  have  been 
at  no  inconvenience  in  gathering  them. '  ' 

"  What  a  picture!  "  exclaimed  Angela,  "  and  what 
an  imagination  you  have,  Margaret!  And  what  dar- 
lings you  both  are!  "  With  which  the  spoiled  child 
kissed  us  both,  and  dismissed  us  to  our  slumbers. 

132 


TU  ES   PETRUS 


"  That  is  what  comes  of  being  a  beauty,"  said  Zel- 
phine,  ' '  but  with  Angela 's  charm  and  cleverness  noth- 
ing is  really  too  good  for  her. ' ' 

"  Zelphine,  you  are  quite  as  bad  as  the  Italians 
over  Angela's  blonde  head.  I  only  trust  that  we  may 
get  her  home  without  any  love-affairs  or  duels ;  but  she 
must  go  on  Monday,  coute  que  coute!  " 

April  10th. 

Something  has  just  happened  that  has  forcibly 
impressed  me  with  the  wisdom  of  your  favorite  prov- 
erb about  crossing  bridges  before  one  comes  to  them — 
a  most  delightful  happening  this!  Dr.  M.  came  in 
this  evening  to  say  that  Rosalie  had  two  tickets  for 
the  tribunes,  and  would  I  go  with  her?  Of  course  I 
accepted  with  great  alacrity,  and  we  are  all  to  set 
forth  together  to-morrow.  Dr.  M.  and  Ludovico  will 
accompany  us  to  the  entrance  to  the  church,  when 
they  and  the  other  male  barbarians  will  find  such 
places  as  they  may.  I  really  feel  sorry  for  Dr.  M., 
who  may  never  be  here  again  upon  such  an  occasion ; 
but  then  he  would  probably  not  be  willing  to  change 
places  with  any  one  of  us,  even  with  Angela,  and  I — 
well,  I  have  never  been  quite  so  glad  to  be  a  woman 
as  I  am  now.  "We  do  have  some  privileges,  although 
Miss  Susan  B.  Anthony  would  say  that  all  of  them, 

133 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


when  weighed  in  the  balance  against  the  right  of 
suffrage,  are  lighter  than  vanity. 

Miss  Dean  informed  me  at  dinner  last  night  that 
the  Earl  and  Countess  of  Denbigh,  with  their  two 
young  sons,  have  come  to  assist  at  the  service  to-mor- 
row. From  the  expression  of  awe  in  her  enchanting 
voice,  I  am  sure  that  my  charming  neighbor  feels  that 
the  pension  and  everything  in  it  is  honored  by  the  pres- 
ence of  this  peer  and  peeress  of  ancient  lineage ;  but 
as  these  noble  folk  lunch  and  dine  in  their  own  parlor, 
we  have  only  the  uplifting  consciousness  that  they 
pass  through  the  same  hall  and  go  up  and  down  in 
the  same  ascenseur  (when  it  runs  at  all)  upon  their 
goings  out  and  comings  in.  This,  however,  seems  to 
fill  to  the  brim  the  cup  of  content  of  my  Irish  friend. 

April  llth. 

We  were  all  up  betimes  this  morning,  and  were  on 
our  way  to  St.  Peter's  before  eight  o'clock.  I  must 
here  confess  to  a  quite  pardonable  pride  in  the  appear- 
ance of  my  companions.  Zelphine  and  Mrs.  M.,  in 
long  black  gowns  which  accentuated  their  tall  slender- 
ness,  with  handsome  lace  at  the  neck  and  sleeves  and 
the  regulation  black  lace  scarf  most  coquettishly 
draped  over  their  white  pompadours,  looked  like  fair 
and  noble  ladies  of  the  court  of  Louis  Quinze  on  their 

134 


TU   ES   PETRUS 


way  to  mass  at  the  Sainte  Chapelle  or  Notre  Dame. 
Angela,  who  owned  no  black  gown,  had  borrowed  one 
of  mine,  which  she  had  tucked  in  and  let  out  and  gen- 
erally readjusted  until  it  became  her  as  everything 
does  that  she  puts  on  her  graceful  figure.  The  som- 
breness  of  her  dress  and  veil  served  to  bring  out  the 
gold  of  the  girl's  hair  and  the  whiteness  of  her  skin, 
and  with  a  delicate  flush  on  her  cheek,  like  the  inside 
of  a  shell,  she  looked  like  one  of  the  beings  whose 
name  she  bears. 

Ludovico  evidently  had  the  same  thought.  Touched 
by  the  girl's  beauty,  after  the  manner  of  his  beauty- 
loving  race,  he  bent  over  Angela  and  repeated  the 
old  story  of  the  three  prisoners  from  Britain  whose 
fair  faces  and  blonde  heads  drew  from  Pope  Gregory 
the  exclamation,  "  Non  Angli  sed  angeli!  "  "  And 
this,"  added  Ludovico,  devoutly,  "  as  you  know,  led 
to  the  Christianizing  of  Britain." 

By  the  time  Ludovico  had  finished  his  story  we  had 
reached  the  Borgo  Nuovo.  At  the  Piazza  Rusticucci 
there  was  so  long  a  line  of  carriages  that  we  aban- 
doned ours,  and  passed  on  foot  through  Bernini's 
lofty  colonnade,  and  on  by  wicked  Caligula's  grand 
obelisk  out  into  the  vastness  of  the  piazza,  spanned 
to-day  by  the  most  perfect  of  Italian  skies,  into 
whose  ethereal  blueness  Maderno's  noble  fountains 

135 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


were  trying  which  one  could  throw  its  spray  the 
highest. 

It  is  a  privilege  to  see  St.  Peter's  at  any  time,  but 
to  see  it  to-day,  with  the  great  piazza  filled  with  sol- 
diers and  the  vast,  surging,  swaying  throng  of  people, 
is  an  inspiration  as  well  as  a  joy.  The  varied  uni- 
forms of  the  soldiers  and  guards  and  the  gowns  of  the 
different  seminarists,  blue,  green,  purple,  and,  above 
all,  the  brilliant  scarlet  gowns  of  the  German  students, 
against  the  gray  background  of  the  great  basilica, 
added  much  to  the  picturesqueness  of  the  scene. 

At  the  top  of  the  great  steps  leading  to  the  vestibule 
Ludovico  begged  us  to  turn  for  a  moment  to  see  the 
crowd  below,  a  restless  sea  of  heads,  an  immense  con- 
course of  people,  but  a  good-natured  crowd  to  which 
any  one  might  trust  himself  with  safety.  Many  tour- 
ists, English,  French,  and  German  as  well  as  Amer- 
ican, went  to  St.  Peter's  to-day  provided  only  with 
the  white  biglietti  of  admission,  and  suffered  no  incon- 
venience. I  really  hesitate  to  tell  you  just  how  many 
souls  are  said  to  have  been  in  the  basilica  this  morn- 
ing, lest  the  apparent  extravagance  of  my  statement 
should  lead  to  incredulity  in  the  future ;  but  it  is  said 
that  there  were  over  50,000  souls  inside  the  walls. 

Dr.  M.  and  Ludovico  left  us  at  the  south  door,  and 
once  inside  the  building  we  had  no  difficulty  in  mak- 

136 


TU   ES   PETRUS 


ing  our  way  to  the  sacristy,  and  through  the  gray  mar- 
ble portal,  by  Romano's  statues  of  St.  Peter  and  St. 
Paul,  and  so  on  to  the  tribunes  in  the  transept. 

Rich  silk  hangings  draped  the  stone  walls  and  col- 
umns, those  behind  the  papal  throne  being  embroi- 
dered in  ecclesiastical  designs.  The  throne  was  placed 
in  front  of  the  ancient  Chair  of  St.  Peter,  and  between 
our  seats  and  the  throne  was  the  great  high  altar,  ninety- 
five  feet  in  height,  with  its  bronze  canopy  and  grace- 
ful spiral  columns  of  Bernini,  double  spirals  richly 
gilded.  As  the  mass  was  to  be  celebrated  at  the  high 
altar  and  as  we  were  in  the  fourth  row  of  seats  from 
the  front,  we  were  sure  of  a  good  view  of  the  Pope. 
All  around  us  were  the  Swiss  Guards,  in  the  pic- 
turesque costume  of  red,  yellow,  and  black  designed 
by  Michael  Angelo,  and  the  Pope's  Guardia  Nobile, 
with  "  winged  Achillean  helmet  above  the  Empire 
uniform — half  Greek,  half  French,  half  gods,  half 
dandies, ' '  as  Mrs.  Ward  described  this  guard  of  young 
nobles  which  surrounds  the  Pope.  The  uniform  of 
the  Gendarme  Pontificio  is  somewhat  like  that  of  the 
old  Philadelphia  City  Troop,  a  handsome  uniform  of 
black  and  white  with  an  immense  shako  adorned  with 
a  red  plume.  But  most  gorgeous  of  all  were  the  cham- 
berlains, in  a  costume  of  black  velvet  of  the  period  of 
Philip  II.,  a  Spanish  dress  with  a  velvet  cape  thrown 

137 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


over  one  shoulder,  superb  lace  cuffs  and  collar  and  an 
immense  ruff  around  the  neck,  and  gold  cords  and 
chains  without  end.  Zelphine  and  I  fancied  our 
friend  Dr.  R.,  who  was  chamberlain  to  Pope  Leo 
XIII.,  figuring  in  this  rich,  decorative  costume.  One 
of  the  chamberlains  wore  a  costume  of  ruby-colored 
velvet  with  a  sable  hood  over  his  shoulders. 

It  was  so  interesting  to  sit  still  and  watch  the 
changing  scene  before  us  that  the  two  hours  of  waiting 
passed  quickly.  The  Pope's  little  sisters  sat  in  front 
of  us  in  the  seats  nearest  to  the  high  altar,  but 
although  quite  close  to  us  we  could  not  see  their  faces. 
They,  of  course,  wrore  the  costume  de  rigueur  for  such 
functions,  black  gowns,  and  black  lace  veils  on  their 
heads.  During  the  long  wait,  an  American  girl  sit- 
ting near  us  told  us  of  her  experiences.  Not  under- 
standing about  the  costume  required,  "  very  stu- 
pidly," as  she  said  and  as  we  thought,  she  appeared 
in  a  dark  blue  suit  with  a  hat  to  match.  The  guard 
refused  to  admit  her,  explaining  the  reason  with  signs 
and  gestures,  pointing  at  the  same  time  to  the  veiled 
ladies  passing  through  the  doorway.  Then,  in  a  flash, 
presto  change! — our  quick-witted  countrywoman  had 
taken  off  her  hat  and  tucked  it  in  the  folds  of  her 
skirt,  having  previously  denuded  it  of  a  black  dotted 
veil  which  she  threw  over  her  head.  The  guard,  lost 

138 


TU  ES   PETRUS 


in  wonder  at  the  sudden  transformation,  was  so  bedaz- 
zled that  he  did  not  notice  that  her  gown  was  blue 
instead  of  black,  or  perhaps  he  was  so  sure  that  she 
would  get  in  by  hook  or  by  crook,  that  he  allowed  her 
to  pass,  exclaiming,  "  Ah,  these  Americans!  " 

"  Something  is  going  to  happen,"  said  Angela; 
"  the  Swiss  Guards  are  coming."  A  detachment 
marched  along  the  central  aisle,  with  cuirass  and  iron 
helmet  added  to  their  brilliant  plumage  of  every-day 
wear,  and  lined  up  by  the  papal  throne.  There  was  a 
rustle  and  stir  of  expectancy  over  the  vast  assem- 
blage, then  breathless  stillness  like  the  silence  of 
nature  before  a  storm.  All  eyes  strained  towards  the 
eastern  door,  through  which  entered  the  gorgeous 
procession.  The  Palatine  Guard  lined  the  way  down 
the  central  aisle,  some  of  the  Swiss  Guard  being  sta- 
tioned at  different  points.  First  came  the  Guardia 
Nobile,  then  the  mitred  abbots,  the  bishops  and  arch- 
bishops in  copes  and  mitres  of  white  and  gold,  the 
patriarchs  and  cardinals,  these  latter  with  long  capes 
of  cloth  of  gold  worn  over  their  scarlet  robes.  Then 
came  the  canons  and  monsignori  in  lace  and  fur  tip- 
pets, after  them  the  prince  in  attendance  on  the  papal 
throne,  Don  Filippo  Orsini,  followed  by  the  secret 
chamberlains  bearing  the  precious  tiaras  and  mitres 
covered  with  gold  and  jewels.  The  triple  crown, 

139 


ITALIAN   DAYS    AND  WAYS 


which  was  borne  upon  a  cushion,  was  a  blaze  of  the 
most  brilliant  jewels,  diamonds,  emeralds,  and  rubies, 
too  heavy  in  its  richness  to  be  borne  long  by  any 
mortal  head. 

Finally,  announced  by  a  blast  from  the  silver  trum- 
pets, the  Pope  appeared,  seated  in  the  sedia  gestatoria, 
borne  above  the  heads  of  the  multitude  by  members  of 
the  household  in  a  livery  of  scarlet  cloth,  the  huge 
feather  fans  or  flabella  being  carried  on  each  side. 
I  really  did  not  grasp  all  these  details  at  first,  as  the 
interest  all  centred  in  that  one  august  figure.  The 
Pope  was  pale,  and  at  first  appeared  to  be  somewhat 
agitated.  It  is  said  that  he  very  much  dislikes  to  be 
carried  into  the  church,  and  it  must,  indeed,  be  a  try- 
ing position.  The  chair  is  lifted  high  above  the  heads 
of  the  people,  that  every  one  may  see  the  Holy  Father ; 
it  is  borne  along  slowly,  pausing  altogether  at  inter- 
vals. There  was  a  stop  near  our  seats  of  a  minute  or 
more,  which  gave  us  an  opportunity  to  see  the  noble, 
benevolent  face  of  the  one  man  who  stands  for  so  much 
to  millions  of  the  faithful.  Less  handsome  and  dis- 
tinguished in  appearance  than  some  of  his  pictures, 
Pius  X.  has  that  in  his  face  that  is  worth  infinitely 
more  than  manly  beauty  or  aristocratic  bearing;  one 
cannot  look  into  it  without  being  impressed  by  his 
earnestness  and  sincerity. 

140 


TU  ES   PETRUS 


It  was  all  perfectly  entrancing;  the  vast  crowd  of 
people  so  still  and  reverent,  and  now  and  again,  when 
the  interest  was  most  intense,  a  subdued  murmur,  the 
Pope  turning  to  right  and  left  to  give  his  blessing, 
just  as  he  appears  in  the  picture  I  send  you.  When 
the  Holy  Father  had  been  carried  to  the  apse,  he 
descended  from  the  sedia  gestatoria  and  knelt  in 
prayer  before  St.  Peter's  Chair.  At  this  moment  a 
bright  ray  of  sunshine  fell  upon  the  group  of  prelates 
in  their  rich  and  varied  vestments ;  the  jewels  flashed 
back  their  many-hued  lights,  making  a  gorgeous  mass 
of  color,  in  the  midst  of  which  was  the  white-robed, 
triple-crowned  figure  of  the  kneeling  Pope. 

In  the  service  that  followed  we  could  hear  the 
Pope's  voice  distinctly  when  he  intoned  the  Gloria, 
and  we  were  near  enough  to  the  altar  to  see  him  give 
the  cardinals  the  kiss  of  peace  and  celebrate  the  mass. 

The  Gregorian  chants,  which  Pius  X.  so  much 
desires  to  restore  to  the  services  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  do  not  seem  to  be  popular,  especially  among 
musicians;  but  in  this  spacious  basilica  they  sounded 
grand  and  beautiful  as  they  swelled  forth  and  rose 
and  fell  through  its  lofty  arches.  Suddenly  from 
Michael  Angelo's  great  dome  overhead  there  issued 
the  exultant  strains  of  the  silver  trumpets,  filling  the 
church  with  their  sweet,  penetrating  music ;  the  long 

141 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


line  of  soldiers  from  the  Chair  of  St.  Peter  to  the 
eastern  door  bent  the  knee,  lowering  their  arms  upon 
the  stone  pavement  with  a  ringing  sound,  the  mighty 
congregation  bowed  or  knelt,  and  we  knew  that  the 
supreme  moment  had  come  for  the  elevation  of  the 
Host  upon  the  high  altar.  Then  there  was  a  solemn 
stillness,  in  which  one  could  hear  a  pin  drop,  followed 
by  the  stir  of  the  rising  of  the  vast  audience,  like 
nothing  that  I  can  think  of  save  the  rustling  of  the 
leaves  of  a  forest  swept  over  by  an  autumn  storm. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  antiphonal  singing  in  the 
service,  in  which  the  Holy  Father  took  part ;  his  beau- 
tiful voice  rang  through  the  church  when  he  chanted 
the  liturgical  prayers  and  the  responses  in  the  ' '  Exul- 
tate  Justi  "  and  the  "  Filii  Jerusalem."  The  cho- 
ruses were  glorious,  about  twelve  hundred  voices, 
pupils  from  the  seminaries  and  colleges  and  from  the 
Schola  Cantorum  taking  part. 

After  the  Pope  had  given  the  apostolic  benediction 
and  granted  plenary  indulgence  to  the  faithful,  which 
formula  was  read  by  the  Cardinal  Bishop  in  a  loud 
voice,  he  again  ascended  the  gestatorial  chair  and  was 
borne  from  the  church  as  he  had  entered  it,  slowly, 
giving  the  blessing  to  right  and  left,  amid  a  subdued 
murmur,  which  he  himself  prevented  from  rising  to 
applause  by  placing  his  finger  upon  his  lip  in  very 

142 


TU  ES   PETRUS 


decided  disapproval.  He  could  not,  however,  prevent 
the  waving  of  handkerchiefs  and  other  mute  signs 
of  delight.  The  Holy  Father  looked  much  more  cheer- 
ful on  his  journey  back  to  the  Vatican,  as  if  greatly 
relieved  that  the  ordeal  was  nearly  over.  All  eyes 
eagerly  followed  the  receding  figure  until  the  canopied 
chair  passed  out  of  sight  behind  the  heavy  damask 
curtains  of  the  Chapel  of  the  Pieta. 

There  was  stillness  for  a  moment,  and  then  the 
voices,  long  silenced,  broke  forth  in  exclamations  of 
interest  and  pleasure  and  in  salutations  to  friends. 
All  the  English  and  Americans  in  Rome  seemed  to 
be  in  St.  Peter 's  to-day,  and  many  distinguished  Cath- 
olics from  different  parts  of  the  world.  A  number  of 
persons  came  forward  to  speak  to  the  Pope's  sisters, 
who  seemed  to  be  holding  quite  a  reception  as  we 
passed  by  them  on  our  way  to  the  doors. 

It  was  good  to  be  in  the  open  again,  in  the  spar- 
kling air  and  under  the  shining  sun,  which  is  not  too 
hot,  only  genial  and  kindly  in  its  warmth  in  these 
early  April  days. 

Angela  was  telling  Ludovico  how  much  she  had 
enjoyed  the  solemn  yet  brilliant  spectacle,  and  asking 
him  rapid,  eager  questions  about  this  official  and  that 
— questions  that  Ludovico  was  only  too  glad  to 
answer,  while  he  drew  her  to  the  other  side  of  the 

143 


ITALIAN  DAYS  AND  WAYS 

piazza  where  a  German  grand  duchess  and  two  lesser 
duchesses  were  stepping  into  their  coaches.  We  also 
had  the  honor  of  seeing  the  Earl  and  Countess  of  Den- 
bigh enter  their  carriage. 

' '  It  has  all  been  perfectly  delightful ;  I  shall  never 
forget  it !  "  exclaimed  Angela,  and  then  turning  to  me 
with  frankest  inconsequence,  she  said,  "  Pray  let  us 
do  something  quite  different  this  afternoon !  ' ' 

Ludovico  fortunately  did  not  hear  her  aside;  but 
Dr.  M.  did,  and,  with  his  ready  sense  of  humor,  was 
vastly  entertained,  and  will  never  cease  to  tease 
Angela  about  the  effect  upon  her  mind  of  a  solemn 
service  in  the  greatest  cathedral  in  the  world. 


144 


X 

VALE    ROMA 


Tuesday,  April  12th. 

THE  "  something  quite  different  "  that  Zelphine 
and  I  consented  to  do  with  Angela  yesterday  after- 
noon was  to  go  to  the  Villa  Madama.  The  drive  was 
pleasant,  and  the  villa  itself  is  charmingly  situated  on 
one  of  the  precipitous  sides  of  Monte  Mario,  but  alas ! 
when  we  reached  the  entrance  gate  we  found  it  barred 
and  bolted,  which  shows  how  important  it  is  to  con- 
sult guide-books  and  local  itineraries  before  making 
these  expeditions. 

Rosalie,  who  was  with  us,  spied  a  man  in  the 
grounds,  to  whom  our  vetturino  called,  "  Ecco,  ecco !  " 
— the  ejaculation  which  corresponds  to  our  "  hello," 
although  it  is  more  universal,  as  it  seems  to  be  suited 
to  all  occasions,  grave  or  gay.  This  man  proved  to 
be  the  custodian  of  the  villa.  He  stated  emphatically 
that  the  villa  was  closed  and  could  not  be  exhibited 
to-day;  but  when  he  caught  the  gleam  of  silver  in 
Angela's  outstretched  hand,  he  swung  the  gate  open 
hospitably. 

10  145 


ITALIAN   DAYS    AND  WAYS 


This  Medici  villa,  which  was  named  after  a  daugh- 
ter of  Charles  V.  who  married  Alessandro  de'  Medici, 
is  not  spacious  and  imposing  like  the  Villa  d'Este  or 
the  Borghese ;  but  it  is  an  ideal  patrician  country-seat. 
We  had  been  reading  Marion  Crawford's  novel  in 
which  he  describes  this  villa,  restored  by  the  Con- 
tessina  Cecilia  Palladio.  So  perfect  is  the  vraisem- 
blance  of  the  novelist's  picture  that  when  we  entered 
the  half-ruinous,  deserted  house,  from  whose  damp 
walls  the  beautiful  frescoes  are  fast  fading,  we  felt  a 
shock  of  disappointment.  Mr.  Crawford's  glowing 
description  is  of  the  Villa  Madama  as  it  should  be 
rather  than  as  it  is. 

If  I  were  only  a  multi-millionaire,  I  would  buy 
this  lovely  old  place  and  make  it  the  thing  of  beauty 
that  Mr.  Crawford  describes.  In  fact,  Rosalie  and  I 
sat  in  the  "  court  of  honor  "  by  the  old  fountain 
basin,  and  planned  a  restoration  which  we  thought 
even  superior  to  Cecilia  Palladio 's,  with  plate-glass 
sashes  in  the  loggias  and  steam  heat  to  dry  out  the 
dampness  and  preserve  Giulio  Romano's  wonderful 
frescoes;  comfort  as  well  as  beauty  would  reign  in 
the  old  villa !  When  this  great  work  is  completed,  we 
four  are  to  meet  here  every  spring  in  the  rose-time; 
would  you  like  to  come,  Allan,  as  our  first  guest  to 
this  chateau  en  Espagne? 

146 


VALE   ROMA 


Angela,  in  whom  the  instincts  for  castle-building  and 
for  home-making  are  sadly  wanting,  interrupted  our 
day-dreams  by  reminding  us  that  we  were  due  at  a 
tea,  and  had  barely  time  to  get  to  the  Via  Ludovisi  by 
five  o'clock.  As  we  passed  by  the  barracks  near  the 
Ponte  Margherita,  our  driver  motioned  toward  an 
approaching  carriage — a  handsome  carriage  with  liv- 
eries and  a  fine  span  of  horses  but  no  outriders.  In 
the  flash  of  the  rapid  passing  we  could  only  catch  a 
glimpse  of  two  ladies  inside ;  one  with  fine  dark  eyes, 
animated  and  gracious,  attracted  us  especially. 

"  The  good  Queen  Mother,"  said  the  vetturino, 
turning  to  us.  ' '  We  all  love  her. ' ' 

We  were  glad  to  have  even  this  fleeting  view  of  the 
Queen  so  beloved  by  the  Italians.  It  is  charming  to 
hear  them  speak  of  her  as  they  do,  not  as  the  Queen 
Dowager,  or  the  old  Queen,  but  affectionately,  as  the 
Queen  Mother. 

Friday,  April  15th. 

Mrs.  Coxe,  with  whom  we  made  the  excursion  to 
Passtum,  called  to  see  us  yesterday  morning.  We 
came  near  losing  her  visit  altogether  in  this  curious, 
rambling  pension,  where  the  drawing-rooms  are  on 
the  third  floor,  the  dining-room  on  the  fourth,  and  the 
bedrooms  are  scattered  over  all  of  the  floors.  The  bell- 
boy escorted  our  visitor,  in  truly  foreign  fashion,  to 

147 


ITALIAN  DAYS   AND  WAYS 


Zelphine's  bedroom  on  the  fourth  piano,  and  as  she 
happened  to  be  in  the  salon,  and  there  was  no  boy  or 
bell  in  sight,  Mrs.  Coxe  set  forth  on  a  voyage  of  dis- 
covery, exploring  the  dining-room  and  then  going 
down  to  the  smoking-rooms  and  library  until  she 
found  the  salon,  in  which  we  were  comfortably  seated 
enjoying  our  morning  mail. 

She  laughed  heartily  over  our  detached  way  of  liv- 
ing, but  said  she  was  determined  to  find  us  even  if 
she  followed  us  to  the  cellar,  as  she  was  the  bearer  of 
an  invitation  to  join  a  party  to  be  conducted  by  Mon- 
signor  A.  through  some  of  the  rooms  of  the  Vatican 
not  usually  open  to  visitors.  Mrs.  Coxe  had  brought 
a  letter  to  this  gentleman  from  her  parish  priest, 
which  was  the  reason  for  this  courteous  invitation  in 
which  we  were  so  generously  included. 

"We  met  the  Monsignor  and  his  party  near  the  steps 
leading  to  the  Sistine  Chapel,  and  were  taken  through 
the  rooms  in  which  the  finest  tapestries  are  kept — 
immense  pieces  representing  Scripture  scenes.  These 
tapestries,  which  are  beautiful,  with  all  the  delicacy 
of  painting  and  the  richness  of  needlework,  are  only 
used  behind  the  altar  when  the  Pope  celebrates.  Mon- 
signor A.  told  us  that  the  Holy  Father  never  cele- 
brates before  a  painting,  always  before  tapestry.  In 
another  room  we  saw  a  man  at  work  upon  a  large 

148 


VALE   ROMA 


altar-piece,  weaving  in  the  colors  by  hand — a  slow 
process,  as  you  may  imagine,  but  they  count  years 
here  as  we  count  days. 

We  were  allowed  to  enter  the  grand  banquet-hall 
hung  with  tapestries,  in  which  preparations  were 
being  made  for  a  great  dinner;  handsome  glass  and 
plate  were  on  the  buffet,  looking  very  secular  for  il 
Vaticano.  "We  saw  the  rooms  of  one  of  the  old  popes, 
and  Monsignor  A.  showed  us  the  low,  broad  steps 
over  which  the  popes  used  to  ride  on  their  white 
mules  from  one  part  of  the  Vatican  to  the  other.  We 
did  not  wonder  that  they  were  glad  to  ride  through 
this  vast  building,  as  we  were  tired  after  we  had  seen 
only  a  small  part  of  it  and  a  few  of  the  eleven  thou- 
sand rooms.  Fancy  the  extent  of  this  palace,  with 
its  museums,  libraries,  chapels,  and  suites  of  apart- 
ments, of  which  we  gained  some  idea  from  the  inner 
court  and  galleries. 

Monsignor  A.  proved  to  be  a  genial  old  gentleman 
who  enlivened  his  discourse  with  occasional  anecdotes, 
which,  delicious  as  they  were  in  his  broken  English, 
would  lose  something  of  their  flavor  if  I  should  under- 
take to  repeat  them  in  less  picturesque  language.  He 
took  us  out  on  the  balcony  overlooking  the  piazza, 
from  which  the  Pope  used  to  give  his  blessing  to  the 
populace  on  Easter  Sunday.  The  Monsignor  said, 

149 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


with  some  sadness,  that  this  custom  belonged  to  the 
old  regime.  We  could  imagine  what  the  great  piazza 
must  have  been,  filled  with  devout  kneeling  figures, 
and,  like  the  good  father,  we  regretted  the  passing  of 
this  impressive  ceremony. 

As  we  wrere  going  through  one  of  the  large  audi- 
ence-halls, an  American  lady  drew  Mrs.  Coxe  and 
me  aside. 

"  What  shall  we  do  about  tipping?  "  she  whis- 
pered. "  These  men,"  pointing  to  some  attendants, 
"  have  been  opening  doors  for  us  ever  since  we 
started.  We  must  fee  them,  and  yet  how  can  we  do 
it  without  attracting  the  attention  of  the  Monsignor? 
Do  you  think  there  will  be  an  opportunity  to  give  them 
something?  " 

"  If  there  is  not,"  said  Mrs.  Coxe,  promptly,  "  it 
will  be  the  first  time  such  a  thing  ever  happened  in 
Italy!  I,  for  one,  am  quite  willing  to  take  my 
chances  on  it. ' ' 

A  few  minutes  later  the  Monsignor  signified  that  we 
had  completed  our  tour  with  him.  He  courteously 
hoped  that  we  had  been  repaid  for  the  fatigue  of  the 
many  steps  we  had  taken.  Then,  motioning  toward 
the  attendants,  he  said  that  we  might  give  them  a  few 
soldi  for  their  trouble,  adding,  simply  and  naturally, 
as  if  the  words  cost  him  no  effort: 

150 


VALE   ROMA 


"  The  keys  of  the  rooms  that  you  have  seen  are  in 
the  charge  of  a  gentleman  who  lends  them  to  me. 
When  I  return  them,  I  should  be  glad  to  hand  him 
something  to  repay  him  for  his  kindness.  If  you  feel 
like  giving  him  a  trifle,  he  and  his  friends  will  sit 
down  at  a  table  in  some  garden,  with  a  bottle  of  wine 
before  them,  and  drink  to  Father  A. 's  hat."  His 
own  hat,  of  course !  Was  it  not  deliciously  frank  and 
foreign  ?  Mrs.  Coxe  glanced  triumphantly  at  us,  and 
Angela  was  so  much  amused  at  the  idea  of  contribut- 
ing to  the  convivial  pleasures  of  several  unknown  gen- 
tlemen in  return  for  our  privileges  at  the  Vatican  that 
I  thought  it  wise  to  make  our  compliments  and  adieus 
to  the  Monsignor  as  quickly  as  possible,  before  she 
should  disgrace  the  party  by  unseemly  hilarity. 

Thursday,  April  21st. 

This  has  been  a  full  week,  in  which  there  has  been 
little  time  for  letter-writing.  Zelphine  and  I  have 
been  driving  about  making  calls  and  leaving  cards 
upon  people  who  have  invited  us  to  their  days.  Angela 
flatly  refuses  to  join  us,  declaring  that  she  did  not 
come  to  Home  to  do  the  self-same  things  that  she  has 
to  do  at  home.  Instead  of  which,  she  has  been  having 
a  gay  time  with  the  W.  's  from  Philadelphia,  driving 
to  the  ' '  Doria-Pamfili  ' '  and  going  to  the  races  at  the 

151 


ITALIAN  DAYS    AND   WAYS 


Campanelle,  for  this  is  the  height  of  the  racing  season. 
To-day  she  went  to  the  Grand  Steeplechase  of  Eome, 
and  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  King  and  Queen 
driving  in  an  open  carriage  drawn  by  four  horses. 
The  Queen  gave  her  own  prize,  the  Queen  Elena  prize 
offered  to  gentlemen  riders,  and  who  of  all  people 
should  get  it  but  the  young  Roman  who  nearly  ran 
over  Mrs.  Robins  at  the  meet !  He  is  a  titled  person- 
age, the  Marquis  de  B.,  but  as  we  could  not  remember 
his  long,  unpronounceable  name,  we  have  dubbed  him 
the  Marquis  de  Carabas,  being  more  familiar  with 
titles  in  fairy  lore  than  in  real  life.  Angela  says  that 
when  Ludovico  brought  the  Marquis  de  B.  to  the  car- 
riage to  speak  to  her,  she  was  in  such  terror  lest  she 
should  call  him  by  our  nickname  that  she  was  afraid 
to  open  her  mouth.  Fancy  Angela  afraid  to  open  her 
mouth  under  any  circumstances !  She  must  have  over- 
come her  hesitation,  for  she  afterwards  had  a  long  talk 
with  the  young  Marquis,  who  took  her  and  Mrs.  W. 
to  have  tea. 

Zelphine  and  I  find  that  our  social  duties  have  their 
compensations,  as  we  meet  such  interesting  people.  I 
had  a  long  talk  with  your  friend  Dr.  White  at  a  recep- 
tion the  other  evening.  He  told  me  that  he  was  pub- 
lishing his  reminiscences  of  diplomatic  life  in  Russia 
and  Germany.  Madame  Waddington  is  here  now,  and 

152 


VALE   ROMA 


much  feted  of  course.  Mrs.  Coxe,  who  has  known  her 
for  years,  says  that  she  is  the  same  Mary  King  whom 
she  knew  as  a  school-girl,  and  is  quite  as  unspoiled 
by  the  success  of  her  book  as  by  her  diplomatic  suc- 
cesses. 

One  day  this  week  an  American  friend,  who  lives 
here  in  a  beautiful  old  palace,  sent  us  her  box  for  "Les 
Huguenots."  The  box  was  in  the  centre  of  what  we 
call  the  balcony,  near  the  royal  box.-  We  were  hoping 
that  the  King  and  Queen  would  appear,  but  we  have 
learned  since  that  they  seldom  go  to  any  plays  except 
those  given  in  their  own  royal  theatre.  Otherwise  the 
house  was  as  brilliant  as  we  had  expected,  and  the 
singing  very  fine,  the  choruses  unusually  strong. 

Ludovico  brought  the  Marquis  de  B.  to  our  box. 
He  has  charming  manners;  indeed,  so  much  manner 
that  one  does  not  get  beyond  it.  I  prefer  our  Amer- 
ican heartiness  to  this  studied  politeness.  Ludovico 
has  asked  permission  to  bring  the  young  Marquis  to 
call  on  us,  assuring  us  that  he  belongs  to  one  of  the 
oldest  families  in  Italy.  I  told  him  that  as  a  gentle- 
man and  his  friend  the  Marquis  de  B.  would  be  wel- 
come without  the  glory  of  an  ancient  lineage.  Ludo- 
vico laughed,  and  said,  "  Oh,  you  Americans  are  so 
proud — as  proud  of  your  democracy  as  if  you  were 
all  nobles!  " 

153 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 

President  Loubet  is  coming  to  Rome  next  Sunday, 
and  the  whole  city  has  begun  to  put  on  yards  of  bunt- 
ing to  receive  him.  These  people  possess  a  genius  for 
decoration,  and  have  a  clever  fashion  of  hanging 
bright-colored  shawls  and  bits  of  carpet  out  of  their 
windows ;  the  effect  is  really  very  good. 

Sunday,  April  24th. 

Rome  is  en  fete  to-day,  a  brilliantly  gay  city !  We 
were  invited  to  see  the  reception  of  M.  Loubet  from  a 
balcony  overlooking  the  Esedra  di  Termine,  from 
which  we  had  a  fine  view  of  the  great  concourse  of 
people — a  wonderful  sight!  All  the  school-children 
of  Rome  were  seated  on  stands  surrounding  the 
piazza ;  there  were  lines  and  lines  of  soldiers,  cavalry 
and  infantry,  and  people  were  standing  everywhere 
except  in  the  space  reserved  for  the  carriages ;  those  of 
the  nobility  were  like  gilded  Cinderella  coaches,  their 
coachmen  and  footmen  in  gorgeous  livery.  The  car- 
riage of  the  Mayor,  Prince  Prosper  Colonna,  was 
especially  fine. 

The  band  played  the  Marcia  Reale,  a  curious  little 
quickstep  air,  which  announced  the  approach  of  the 
expected  guest.  A  troop  of  cuirassiers  opened  the 
way ;  then  came  the  royal  carriage  with  the  red  liveries 
of  the  house  of  Savoy,  the  King  and  President  Loubet 

154 


VALE   ROMA 


seated  side  by  side.  Prince  Colonna  received  the  dis- 
tinguished guest  with  much  grace  and  dignity;  the 
band  then  struck  up  the  Marseillaise;  the  applause 
was  wild,  vivas,  bravos  on  all  sides.  These  Italians 
are  not,  I  fancy,  devotedly  attached  to  the  French 
Republic  or  to  its  President ;  but  like  all  Latin  peoples 
they  delight  in  a  celebration,  a  general  hurrah,  martial 
music,  flying  banners,  and  tumultuous  applause. 

Monday,  April  25th. 

We  have  quaffed  our  last  draught  from  the  Foun- 
tain of  Trevi,  thrown  a  penny  into  the  pool  to  ensure 
our  return  to  Rome,  and  taken  a  farewell  look  at  Nep- 
tune and  his  floundering  steeds.  Our  trunks  are 
packed,  as  we  had  planned  to  leave  Rome  this  morn- 
ing, but  the  men  did  not  come  for  our  boxes,  which  are 
to  go  by  petite  vitesse  to  Florence  while  we  loiter  by 
the  way  in  several  hill  towns.  We  set  forth  to  dis- 
cover the  reason  of  the  delay,  and  found  the  express 
office  closed,  all  business  being  suspended  during  the 
grand  review  which  is  being  held  on  the  Piazza  d'Armi 
in  honor  of  the  French  President.  It  is  evident 
that  we  shall  have  to  adapt  our  movements  to  those 
of  this  worthy  gentleman ;  but  after  all,  this  detention 
cannot  be  looked  upon  as  an  unmixed  evil,  as  it  gave 
us  a  few  hours  more  in  Rome  which  we  spent  in  the 

155 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


Vatican.  After  taking  a  last  lingering  look  at  the 
Apollo  and  the  Laocoon,  we  had  an  hour  in  the  Sis- 
tine  Chapel  for  the  ceiling  frescoes  of  Michael  Angelo. 
To-day  being  brilliantly  clear,  the  faces  and  figures 
stood  out  as  we  had  never  seen  them  before,  and  we 
ended  by  feeling  grateful  to  M.  Loubet,  for  had  he  not 
detained  us  we  might  never  have  so  truly  appreciated 
the  magnificent  Prophets  and  Sybils,  which  are  diffi- 
cult to  see  properly  in  cloudy  weather  such  as  we  had 
during  Holy  Week. 

EN  ROUTE  FOR  VITERBO. 

Ludovico  and  the  Marquis  de  B.  were  at  the  station 
this  afternoon  to  see  us  off,  although  they  had  spent 
a  part  of  the  morning  with  us.  They  both  brought 
offerings  of  flowers,  which  was  certainly  a  graceful 
attention  on  the  part  of  the  Marquis,  whom  we  only 
know  casually ;  but  here  they  offer  flowers  with  almost 
as  little  thought  as  one  says  good  morning  in  America. 
Zelphine  and  I  have  the  dark  red  ones  that  we  love; 
Angela's  are  white  and  pink.  The  Marquis  paid  our 
youngest  and  fairest  some  compliments  about  the  roses 
matching  the  color  in  her  cheeks,  which  served  to 
spread  a  pink  glow  all  over  her  face  and  to  make 
Ludovico  angry.  It  is  quite  evident  that  we  are  not 
leaving  Rome  too  soon,  as  these  good  friends  might 
quarrel  if  we  should  stay  longer,  and  my  duties  as  a 

156 


VALE   ROMA 


chaperon  would  certainly  become  more  arduous.  We 
shall  miss  Ludovico  at  every  turn,  and  I  flatter  myself 
that  he  will  miss  us.  We  have  all  so  enjoyed  our 
Roman  days  together,  and  he  and  Angela  were  simply 
bons  camarades,  after  the  comfortable,  unsentimental 
fashion  of  the  modern  boy  and  girl,  until  the  Marquis 
came  into  our  little  circle  with  his  too  evident  admira- 
tion and  florid,  Continental  compliments. 


157 


XI 

SHORT  JOURNEYS 


ORVIETO,  April  27th. 

WE  have  been  travelling  so  fast,  in  the  last  days, 
that  there  has  been  no  time  for  writing,  which  is  my 
excuse  for  not  sending  you  a  letter  from  Viterbo, 
whose  middle-age  charms  might  fill  many  pages.  Now 
I  am  writing  with  the  brilliant  colors  of  the  facade 
of  Orvieto's  great  cathedral  still  dazzling  my  eyes. 
We  saw  it  first  at  sunset,  when  its  exquisite  colors 
were  intensified,  and  glowed  in  harmony  with  the 
delicate  rose  and  rich  golden  glory  of  the  sky.  With 
its  vast  mosaic  front  and  exquisite  Gothic  arches  and 
spires,  the  Cathedral  of  Orvieto  is  the  central  point 
of  shining  light  in  the  old  gray-brown  town  which  it 
crowns.  This  evening  it  was  like  a  jewel  with  a 
thousand  facets  gleaming  in  the  sunset  light,  and,  as 
many  travellers  have  asserted,  its  immense  rose-win- 
dow above  the  cathedral  portal  is  in  itself  worth  a 
journey  to  Orvieto.  This  window  with  the  lovely 
mosaic  above  it  of  Christ  and  the  Virgin  Mary 
enthroned  and  surrounded  by  angels,  all  in  the  softest 

158 


SHORT    JOURNEYS 


blue,  crimson,  and  gold,  quite  enthralled  us,  and  we 
lingered  so  long  before  the  cathedral  that  the  sunset 
colors  faded,  the  delicate  hues  of  the  mosaic  grew 
dim,  and  darkness  fell  upon  the  huge  mass,  wrapping 
it  about  as  with  a  garment.  "  We  shall  never  again 
see  anything  so  beautiful  in  this  world,"  said  Zel- 
phine,  solemnly,  as  we  walked  back  to  our  hotel 
through  the  narrow,  dark  streets.  And  indeed  I  doubt 
if  we  ever  shall ;  to  behold  a  sunset  of  such  brilliancy 
illuminating  a  building  of  beauty  so  entrancing  is 
something  that  one  need  not  expect  to  have  repeated 
in  a  lifetime. 

We  intended  to  come  here  directly  from  Rome,  a 
journey  of  only  a  few  hours;  a  detour  to  Montefias- 
cone  and  Viterbo  was  decided  upon,  on  the  spur  of 
the  moment,  just  before  leaving  Rome.  Zelphine  came 
across  some  notes  about  Montefiascone  in  her  Bae- 
deker that  reminded  her  of  Mr.  Longfellow 's  descrip- 
tion of  his  visit  to  the  tomb  of  Johannes  Fugger  of 
Augsburg,  upon  which  she  insisted  that  we  linger  a 
day  and  night  on  our  journey  hither,  in  order  to  visit 
the  sacred  city  of  the  Etruscans. 

You  probably  recall  the  story  in  ' '  Outre-Mer, ' '  and 
will  be  laughing  at  us  for  going  many  miles  to  do 
honor  to  the  memory  of  a  wine-loving  old  bishop ;  but 
I  was  glad  that  we  had  listened  to  Zelphine 's  words  of 

159 


ITALIAN  DAYS  AND  WAYS 


wisdom,  as  the  place  itself,  quite  aside  from  the  strange 
tomb,  is  so  interesting — a  little  gray  town  towering 
above  the  green  plain,  with  narrow  streets  and  high 
stone  houses,  plastered,  to  be  sure,  but  still  ancient  and 
impressive.  Just  outside  the  gate  is  a  small  inn,  the 
Aquila  Nera,  which  is  said  to  occupy  the  site  of  the 
shrine  of  Voltumna,  the  tutelary  goddess  of  the  Etrus- 
cans, where  the  princes  of  the  nation  once  gathered 
in  council.  Here  we  discharged  our  vetturino,  as  this 
hill  town  is  not  adapted  to  the  luxuries  of  modern 
transportation,  and  made  our  way  on  foot  to  the 
Church  of  San  Flaviano. 

We  did  not,  like  Mr.  Longfellow,  make  a  midnight 
pilgrimage  to  Bishop  Fugger  's  tomb ;  our  visit  was  at 
high  noon.  The  eleventh-century  Church  of  San  Fla- 
viano is  unique  and  imposing,  with  its  huge  Roman- 
esque columns,  Gothic  doorways,  and  upper  and  lower 
buildings.  Here  before  the  high  altar  is  a  well-worn 
gravestone  with  a  relief  of  a  bishop  in  his  robes,  a 
goblet  on  each  side  of  his  head,  and  at  his  feet  the 
cabalistic  words  "  Est,  Est,  Est."  The  remainder  of 
the  inscription  we  could  not  decipher,  but  we  after- 
wards learned  that  it  ran  thus: 

"EST.    EST.   EST.    PR(OPTER)    NIM(IUM) — EST.    HIC 

IO(ANNES)  DE  vc  DO  (MINUS) — MEUS  MORTUUS  EST." 
160 


SHORT  JOURNEYS 


The  strange  inscription  and  the  two  goblets  con- 
firmed the  story  of  the  convivial  bishop,  who,  in  order 
to  secure  good  wine  at  each  inn,  while  travelling 
through  Etruria,  sent  his  servant  a  day's  journey  in 
advance  of  him,  instructing  him  to  write  "  Est  "  in 
some  agreed  place  if  he  found  the  wine  good.  When 
the  taster  came  to  Montefiascone,  he  was  so  charmed 
with  the  native  wine  that  he  wrote  "  Est,  Est,  Est," 
on  the  wall.  Bishop  Fugger  arrived  in  due  tune, 
thoroughly  endorsed  the  opinion  of  his  servant,  and 
drank  of  the  "  Est  "  wine  so  freely  that  in  a  short 
time  he  himself  was  non  est.  With  his  last  breath  the 
bishop  dictated  a  will,  by  which  he  bequeathed  a  con- 
siderable sum  of  money  to  the  town  upon  condition 
that  a  cask  of  the  "  Est  "  wine  be  annually  poured 
over  his  grave.  This,  they  tell  us,  was  actually  done 
until  within  a  few  years,  when  the  wine  became  too 
precious  to  be  poured  forth  in  libations  so  generous. 
Now  you  will  surely  come  to  Montefiascone — "  moun- 
tain of  the  flask, ' '  as  everything  has  a  vinous  associa- 
tion here — and  drink  to  the  peace  of  his  soul  who 
drank  * '  not  wisely  but  too  well. ' ' 

From  San  Flaviano  we  strolled  back  to  the  Aquila 
Nera,  where,  if  the  bread  was  of  the  color  and  con- 
sistency of  leather,  the  eggs  were  fresh  and  the  fried 
artichokes  delicious,  while  the  wine — well,  the  wine, 
11  161 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


like  dear  Charles  Lamb's  sublimated  roast  pig  and 
many  other  delectable  things,  must  be  tasted  to  be 
understood.  No  words  of  mine  can  convey  to  you 
any  idea  of  its  sweetness  and  fragrance  and  general 
deliciousness,  cooled  as  it  is  with  snow  from  the  sur- 
rounding mountains,  after  the  fashion  of  the  ancient 
Komans.  After  tasting  of  the  "  Est,  Est,  Est,"  we 
were  more  ready  to  shed  a  tear  over  the  tomb  of  the 
bishop  than  we  had  been  before  luncheon,  and  we  can 
also  better  understand  how  the  peasants  of  this  region 
live  on  their  poor  fare  when  it  is  accompanied  by 
nectar  of  the  gods — a  wine  which  does  not  seem  to 
intoxicate,  as  they  drink  it,  but  is  an  article  of  diet 
like  coffee  or  tea  or  cocoa  or  oil.  Another  character- 
istic of  the  ' '  Est,  Est,  Est, ' '  is  that  it  must  be  drunk 
here,  as  it  will  not  bear  transportation  even  to  Rome. 
After  luncheon  we  climbed  up  the  steep  street  which 
leads  to  the  cathedral.  This  great  building,  with  its 
gigantic  dome,  richly  colored  marbles,  and  its  many 
statues  and  frescoes,  in  a  little  out-of-the-way  town 
whose  history  is  all  over  and  done  with,  affords  one  of 
the  striking  contrasts  that  add  so  much  to  the  charm  of 
Italy.  A  brilliant  gem  in  a  dull  setting  is  this  old 
church,  and  yet  with  its  many  points  of  light  the  jewel 
irradiates  the  sombre  setting,  instead  of  making  it 
seem  darker  by  contrast.  We  left  the  beautiful 

162 


SHORT   JOURNEYS 


cathedral  reluctantly  to  take  an  afternoon  train  to 
Yiterbo,  where  we  were  told  that  we  should  find  a 
much  more  comfortable  inn  than  at  Montefiascone. 

Zelphine,  living  over  again  the  glorious  past  of  the 
great  Etruscan  city  which  we  were  about  to  visit, 
scorned  all  thought  of  creature  comfort,  yet  Angela 
and  I  noticed  that  she  seemed  to  enjoy  the  unexpected 
luxuries  of  the  really  good  hotel  in  Viterbo  as  much 
as  we  more  mundane  beings.  Angela  was  in  her  ele- 
ment in  a  brilliantly  lighted  hotel,  with  a  large,  bright 
dining-room  and  well-appointed  tables,  and  began  at 
once  to  wish  that  we  had  better  gowns  in  which  to 
grace  the  festive  scene  than  the  light  silk  waists 
which  we  had  brought  with  us  to  wear  with  our  trav- 
elling-skirts. And  yet,  this  very  morning,  we  had  all 
been  congratulating  ourselves  upon  our  small  amount 
of  luggage,  declaring  that  we  were  only  free  women 
when  we  had  sent  our  trunks  in  advance  of  us  and 
could  hold  our  worldly  goods  in  our  two  hands.  Zel- 
phine and  I  still  rejoice  in  our  freedom;  but  we  are 
not  Angelas,  with  youth  and  all  its  possibilities. 

Viterbo  is  the  oldest-looking  place  that  we  have 
seen  except  Pompeii.  In  the  most  ancient  portions  of 
the  city,  in  the  little  dark  streets  with  their  high  walls, 
tunnels,  and  archways,  one  may  go  back  a  thousand 
years  to  the  ninth  and  tenth  centuries.  Here  are 

163 


ITALIAN  DAYS   AND  WAYS 

many  towers  for  defence,  and  massive  fortified  dwell- 
ings with  richly  carved  porticos,  balustrades,  and  bal- 
conies; and  in  keeping  with  the  antique  architecture 
are  the  peasants,  in  their  wide-brimmed  hats  and 
sheepskin  breeches  with  the  hair  outside,  still  wearing 
their  cloaks  like  the  ancient  Romans,  one  end  thrown 
over  the  left  shoulder.  The  storm-cloaks  of  the  peas- 
ants of  this  region  are  heirlooms,  descending  from 
father  to  son,  often  more  than  a  hundred  years  old. 
The  walls  of  Viterbo  are  almost  as  perfect  as  in  the 
twelfth  century,  when,  like  Troy  of  old,  it  stood  a  long 
siege  for  the  sake  of  a  woman's  beauty  and  charm. 
Galiana,  for  whose  possession  two  powerful  families 
of  Rome  and  Viterbo  waged  war,  must  have  been  a 
far  nobler  creature  than  the  lady  of  Trojan  fame. 
When  the  Romans  outside  the  walls  promised  to  end 
the  war  if  Galiana  would  but  grant  them  a  sight  of  her 
fair  face  upon  the  town  walls,  she  promptly  yielded 
to  the  request,  and  appeared  upon  a  tower  which  still 
bears  her  name.  Here  Galiana  fell,  pierced  by  the 
arrow  of  a  treacherous  Roman.  We  saw  the  tomb  and 
an  inscription  to  the  heroic  Galiana  on  the  facade  of 
the  Church  of  St.  Angelo,  which  stands  on  the  Piazza 
del  Plebiscito. 

"  I  wonder  if  women  are  beautiful  enough  nowa- 
days to  lead  men  to  war  for  their  sakes, ' '  said  Angela. 

164 


SHORT   JOURNEYS 


As  she  stood  there,  her  perfect  outline  silhouetted 
against  the  gray  background  of  Galiana's  old  tower, 
the  slanting  sunbeams  lighting  up  her  fair  hair,  I  won- 
dered whether  Helen  of  Troy  or  Galiana  of  Viterbo 
had  either  of  them  been  more  beautiful  than  our 
American  Angela.  Then,  suddenly  recalling  the  little 
scene  at  the  railroad  station  in  Rome,  I  answered  so 
emphatically,  "  I  hope  not,"  that  Zelphine  started, 
and  came  back  from  the  past  long  enough  to  look  at 
me  questioningly. 

"  How  seriously  you  take  it  all,  Margaret,"  said 
Angela,  with  her  light  laugh.  "  Even  if  we  are  not 
as  beautiful  as  those  old-time  ladies,  we  are  certainly 
much  happier,  travelling  about  to  please  ourselves,  as 
we  are  doing,  instead  of  being  carried  off  to  some 
castle  to  please  somebody  else,  and  then  having  a  long 
war  about  it  all.  I  do  wonder,  though,  that  some  great 
poem  has  not  been  written  about  Galiana  on  her 
tower." 

"  No  doubt  Italian  poets  have  written  about  her 
again  and  again, ' '  said  Zelphine. 

"  Oh  yes,  of  course,  but  I  mean  in  some  language 
that  people  can  understand.  Mr.  Browning,  for 
instance,  could  have  written  a  great  poem  about  Gali- 
ana." 

I  doubt  if  Mr.  Browning  ever  found  his  way  here ; 
165 


ITALIAN  DAYS  AND  WAYS 

few  English-speaking  people  came  to  Viterbo  before 
the  railroad  from  Rome  was  "built.  But  was  not 
Angela's  explanation  sufficiently  original  to  please 
you  or  Zelphine  or  any  other  ardent  admirer  of  Mr. 
Browning  ? 

Zelphine  was  delighted,  and  said,  as  she  linked  her 
arm  in  mine  to  descend  the  narrow,  steep  street  that 
leads  towards  the  hotel,  that  under  her  tutelage  and 
mine  Angela  was  really  beginning  to  develop  some 
sentiment.  Angela's  sentiment  did  not  impress  me  as 
much  as  her  linguistic  perspective,  which  made  me 
think  of  the  Scotchwoman  who  said  that  the  Lord 
would  not  listen  to  the  prayers  of  the  French,  because 
they  were  "  sic  jabberin  budies. " — You  remember 
the  story;  was  it  before  the  battle  of  Agincourt? 
How  one  forgets  English  history,  here  in  towns  that 
so  long  antedate  the  Norman  conquest! 

This  morning  we  drove  to  Bagnaja,  only  a  short  dis- 
tance north-east  of  Viterbo  and  built  upon  one  of  the 
slopes  of  the  Ciminian  Hills.  From  an  eminence 
near  Bagnaja  we  had  a  noble  view  of  Montefiascone 
ten  miles  away,  a  little,  gray  town  dominated  by  the 
dome  of  the  vast  cathedral,  while  much  nearer  lay 
Viterbo,  with  its  lofty  campanile  and  one  hundred 
towers,  dark,  formidable,  and  majestic.  We  stopped 
at  Bagnaja  to  see  the  great  mediaeval  castle,  with  its 

166 


SHORT  JOURNEYS 


huge  machicolated  tower;  and  then  driving  to  the 
south  of  the  main  piazza  over  a  fine  macadamized 
road,  if  one  may  venture  to  use  a  term  so  modern  in 
describing  this  land  of  the  ancients,  we  were  soon 
face  to  face  with  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  the 
Italian  villas,  that  of  the  Duca  di  Lante.  We  were 
admitted  to  fairyland  by  a  very  conventional  method, 
the  presentation  of  visiting-cards,  and  were  then  con- 
ducted by  a  most  obsequious  servant,  evidently  with 
generous  expectations,  who  unlocked  gates  that  led  to 
the  more  secluded  precincts  of  this  garden  of  delight. 
Rest  and  refreshment  for  body  and  spirit  we  found  in 
the  loveliness  and  harmony  of  our  surroundings. 
Surely  the  queen  of  the  fairies,  Titania  herself,  must 
have  presided  over  the  laying  out  of  these  grounds. 
Zelphine  and  I  ignored  the  lore  of  guides  and  guide- 
books, not  caring  to  learn  that  any  mortal  man  had 
had  a  hand  in  producing  such  beauty  as  this.  The 
great  basin  in  front  of  the  house,  with  its  central 
fountain  bordered  by  blooming  plants,  glittered  in 
the  sunshine.  Beyond  were  the  terraces,  with  their 
tiers  of  fairy  cascades  and  fountains,  where  ilexes  as 
large  as  those  in  the  Borghese  Gardens  cast  a  shade  so 
deep  that  nymphs  and  sprites  might  dance  under 
them,  as  freely  as  in  Corot's  pictures,  unseen  by  loi- 
terers on  the  adjacent  parterres. 

167 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


Sitting  under  the  shade  of  a  huge  ilex,  while  a  bird 
sang  to  us  from  its  sheltering  branches,  we  all  breathed 
a  deep  sigh  of  content,  and  congratulated  ourselves, 
in  Jeffersonian  phrase,  upon  life,  liberty,  and  the  pur- 
suit of  happiness,  after  our  own  vagrant  fashion.  We 
might  suffer  from  cold  and  even  from  hunger  in  some 
wretched  inn  to-night,  but  to-day  we  drank  from  a 
full  cup  of  delight;  the  largess  of  the  gods  was  ours, 
in  a  wealth  of  Italian  sunshine  and  an  air  as  intoxi- 
cating as  the  muscatel  wine  for  which  this  region  is 
famous.  For  the  moment  we  possessed  all  the  glories 
of  the  dead  and  gone  Dukes  of  Lante,  with  neither 
their  sorrows  nor  their  crimes  to  deepen  the  shadows 
upon  those  gay  parterres  and  sparkling  fountains. 

"  It  matters  little  whether  or  not  we  lunch  to-day," 
said  Zelphine,  "  for  we 

" '  on  honey-dew  have  fed, 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise.' " 

"  Speak  for  yourself,  Zelphine,"  said  Angela. 
"  Honey-dew  and  the  milk  of  Paradise  may  satisfy 
your  delicate  appetite,  but  mine  needs  something  more 
substantial  to  feed  upon.  A  good  slice  of  American 
roast  beef  would  be  more  to  my  taste." 

"Oh,  Angela!"  exclaimed  Zelphine.  "And  in 
such  a  spot  as  this!  " 

168 


SHORT   JOURNEYS 


Evidently  Angela's  sentiment  was  not  developing 
as  rapidly  as  Zelphine  could  wish. 

"  Yes,"  continued  our  practical  youngest,  "  I 
would  not  turn  away  from  a  slice  of  roast  beef  and  a 
baked  potato,  even  in  this  enchanting  spot.  I  really 
am  almost  hungry  enough  this  moment  to  share  with 
our  driver  the  crust  of  leathery  bread  that  he  is  prob- 
ably enjoying  while  he  waits  for  us." 

' '  Poor  child, ' '  said  Zelphine,  compassionately,  delv- 
ing into  ' '  Mrs.  Leeks, ' '  from  which  convenient  recep- 
tacle she  produced  a  cake  of  chocolate. 

"  Zelphine,  you  certainly  are  a  dear,  and  have  a 
human  heart,"  said  Angela,  as  she  contentedly 
munched  the  chocolate,  "  even  if  you  are  as  romantic 
as — as " 

"  As  her  own  great-grandmother's  portrait  by 
Stuart, ' '  said  I,  helping  out  Angela,  who  is  not  strong 
in  the  line  of  similes,  "  a  beautiful  lady,  chiefly  com- 
posed of  fine  eyes  and  hair,  with  a  marvellous  com- 
plexion and  no  anatomy  to  speak  of." 

Laughing  and  talking  we  sauntered  on  toward  the 
entrance  gate,  near  which  we  found  our  vetturino. 
As  Angela  had  predicted,  he  was  eating  his  dry  crust, 
flavored,  we  were  glad  to  notice,  by  a  crisp  bit  of 
fennel,  which  they  use  here  as  we  do  celery. 

When  we  returned  to  Viterbo,  it  looked  like  a 
169 


ITALIAN  DAYS   AND  WAYS 


deserted  village;  the  picturesque  peasants  in  their 
sheepskin  suits  were  nowhere  to  be  seen  on  the 
streets,  and  shops  and  windows  were  closed.  It 
appeared  as  if  some  public  calamity  had  befallen  the 
beautiful  old  city.  We  afterwards  learned  that  the 
inhabitants  of  Viterbo,  adhering  to  a  time-honored 
custom,  retire  for  a  siesta  at  mid-day,  from  which 
they  emerge  at  three  or  four  in  the  afternoon  to  spend 
the  evening  gaily  on  the  Corso,  thronging  the  shops, 
which  are  brilliantly  lighted.  Fortunately  for  us,  the 
employees  of  the  hotel  do  not  demand  a  mid-day  rest, 
and  a  luncheon  was  served  us  sufficiently  substantial 
to  satisfy  appetites  sharpened  by  a  long  morning  in 
this  bracing  mountain  air. 

Here  at  Orvieto  we  are  lodged  in  a  modern  hotel, 
something  of  a  surprise  in  this  ancient,  isolated  city, 
which  is  built  upon  a  rock,  like  the  habitation  of  the 
wise  man  of  the  Scriptures.  This  morning  we  spent 
some  time  in  the  Necropolis,  which  is  under  the  pre- 
cipitous cliffs  of  red  tufa  that  seem  to  buttress  this 
old  town.  In  the  Campo  Santo,  which  is  all  that  is  left 
of  the  Etruscan  city  of  Orvieto,  we  found  avenues 
lined  with  tomb  chambers.  The  streets  are  like  those 
of  a  city,  except  that  the  houses  are  without  windows, 
and  no  eager  eyes  look  forth  from  the  doors  that  open 
upon  the  silent  street.  Within  is  a  square  chamber  con- 

170 


SHORT   JOURNEYS 


taining  stone  couches  at  its  sides  for  the  repose  of  the 
dead,  all  of  the  other  furniture  of  an  Etruscan  tomb, 
vases,  bronzes,  terra-cotta  portrait  busts  and  statues, 
having  been  carried  off  for  the  enrichment  of  various 
museums.  From  the  Necropolis  we  made  our  way  to 
the  famous  Well  of  San  Patrizio,  with  its  curious  cork- 
screw stairway  leading  down  into  the  huge  basin 
below. 

We  would  gladly  spend  another  day  in  Orvieto,  in 
order  to  view  the  cathedral's  matchless  facade  once 
more  by  morning  light,  and  at  noon,  and  again  at 
sunset,  and  so  allow  its  beauty  to  print  itself  upon 
our  minds,  and  also  to  study  the  Signorelli  frescoes 
in  the  interior,  the  Fate  of  the  Wicked  and  the  Saints 
in  Heaven,  which,  with  their  muscular  devils  and 
saints,  are  strangely  suggestive  of  Michael  Angelo. 

' '  Why  do  you  not  stop  another  day  ?  ' '  I  hear  you 
ask.  Because  if  we  tarry  here  longer,  we  shall  be 
obliged  to  cut  off  a  day  in  Perugia  or  Assisi  or  some 
ancient  city  quite  as  interesting  as  Orvieto,  and  Kath- 
arine Clarke  is  writing  to  us  urging  us  to  get  to  Flor- 
ence early  in  May,  if  we  wish  to  see  the  City  of 
Flowers  in  the  exquisite  freshness  of  its  spring  beauty. 
The  roses  on  the  hillside  garden  near  San  Miniato  are 
budding  and  blowing,  and  she  tells  us  that  we  must 
be  there  soon  if  we  would  see  them  in  their  prime.  No 

171 


ITALIAN  DAYS   AND  WAYS 


matter  how  charming  a  spot  we  may  be  in,  there  is 
always  some  other  delightful  place  beckoning  us  on 
and  on ! 

We  quite  agree  with  the  traveller,  whose  name  I 
forget,  but  whose  advice  is,  "  Whatever  towns  you 
neglect  between  Rome  and  Florence,  do  not  fail  to 
see  Orvieto."  And  yet  we  are  filled  with  regret 
because  we  must  pass  by  so  many  of  the  interesting 
towns  of  this  region,  Terni  with  its  rushing  waters, 
"  rapid  as  the  light,"  Bolsena  on  its  lovely  lake,  and 
Orte.  Of  this  latter  town  we  saw  little  from  the  win- 
dow of  the  railway  carriage,  except  a  line  of  hungry 
tourists  struggling  to  reach  the  buffet  during  the  short 
stop  at  the  station,  a  scene  so  suggestive  of  our  own 
land  of  rapid  transit  and  hurried  luncheons  that,  for 
a  moment,  we  almost  felt  that  we  were  travelling  in 
America. 


172 


XII 
AN   UMBRIAN   IDYL 


PERUGIA,  April   28th. 

THE  journey  from  Orvieto  to  Perugia  is  a  short  one, 
and  we  had  our  first  sight  of  this  fine  old  town  in  the 
brilliancy  of  a  spring  afternoon.  We  were  fortunate 
in  finding  a  cab  at  the  station,  and  a  vetturino  who 
welcomed  us  to  his  coach  with  great  cordiality,  we 
being  the  only  arrivals  by  the  afternoon  train.  Hav- 
ing with  many  ejaculations  disposed  of  us  and  our 
various  pieces  of  hand-luggage,  large  and  small,  he 
hospitably  invited  a  comely  peasant  woman  to  a  seat 
by  his  side.  Her  luxuriant  black  hair  was  fashionably 
dressed  and  guiltless  of  hat  or  kerchief;  her  black 
dress  was  coarse  but  tidy,  while  a  pair  of  kid  gloves, 
which  had  evidently  seen  service,  gave  a  touch  of  ele- 
gance to  the  simple  costume.  A  large  kerchief,  which 
is  the  favorite  shopping  receptacle,  marketing  bag, 
and  portmanteau  of  the  Italian  peasant — this  one  as 
full  as  the  proverbial  horn  of  plenty — occupied  one 
gloved  hand,  while  with  the  other  she  gesticulated  and 
accentuated  her  animated  conversation,  to  the  evident 

173 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


interest  and  amusement  of  her  host.  With  their  heads 
close  together,  deep  in  conversation,  one  talking,  the 
other  listening  and  occasionally  interjecting  a  com- 
ment, we  wondered  whether  the  pair  were  lovers  or 
only  bons  camarades  discussing  the  last  bit  of  home 
news  or  village  gossip,  for  village  gossip  is  said  to 
flourish  under  the  shadow  of  the  shrine  of  St.  Francis, 
just  as  here  the  cheerful  and  apparently  honest  vet- 
turino  will  cheat  you  out  of  a  franc  as  cleverly  as  a 
cabby  of  Naples  or  any  other  Sodom  of  the  plain. 

A  cheerful  town  Perugia  seemed  to  us,  as  we  drove 
up  the  long  hill  and  saw  the  old  fortress,  with  its 
weed-grown  ramparts  and  many  towers,  basking  in 
the  April  sunshine.  Like  all  of  these  hill  towns 
Perugia  is  gray,  and  yet  with  a  difference:  a  dash 
of  chrome  in  its  stones  gives  a  warmer  tone  to  the  old 
palaces  and  walls,  which  seem  to  be  all  of  a  piece 
with  the  rock  from  which  they  were  hewn.  This  rock 
forms  the  foundation,  and  was  once  the  strength,  of 
this  "  empress  of  hillside  Italian  cities." 

We  had  no  hotel  addresses  for  Perugia  except  the 
Brufani,  and,  as  we  often  find  it  more  enlightening  to 
our  minds  as  well  as  more  advantageous  to  our  purses 
to  stop  in  small  hotels  or  pensions,  we  asked  the  driver 
if  he  knew  of  a  good  stopping-place.  He  seemed  to 
understand,  shook  his  head  as  if  in  deep  thought,  then 

174 


AN   UMBRIAN   IDYL 


consulted  his  companion ;  upon  which,  they  both  looked 
us  all  over  as  if  taking  our  measure,  and,  evidently 
being  agreed  as  to  our  status,  he  exclaimed,  reassur- 
ingly, "  Ecco,  ecco,  we  know  the  albergo  that  will  suit 
the  societal  "  Whipping  his  horse  as  we  drew  near 
the  Porta  Nuova,  he  rattled  through  the  gate,  across 
the  wide  piazza,  and  down  a  long  hill,  to  a  house  on  a 
narrow  street,  where  we  are  comfortably  lodged. 

This  pleasant  little  pension  is  kept  by  an  English 
lady,  with  whom  we  have  already  established  relations, 
as  some  of  our  friends  stopped  here  last  year,  and  we 
are  all  now  basking  in  the  genial  atmosphere  of  good 
will  created  by  them. 

April  29th. 

This  morning  we  found  our  way  to  the  little  Piazza 
delle  Prome,  on  the  verge  of  the  cliff,  below  which  is 
a  sheer  fall  of  one  hundred  feet  to  the  ancient  city 
wall  of  the  Etruscans.  Below  us,  as  we  stood  in  the 
garden  of  the  Prefettura,  were  the  remains  of  Etrus- 
can buildings,  above  them  massive  blocks  laid  by  the 
Romans,  and  spread  before  us  was  the  wide  valley  bor- 
dered by  near  and  distant  mountains.  This  marvel- 
lous view  from  the  Prefettura  is  second  to  none  that 
we  have  seen,  always  excepting  the  vast  sweep  of  the 
green  and  fertile  plain  at  Grenada  as  we  saw  it  from 
the  heights  of  the  Alhambra. 

175 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


We  afterwards  wandered  from  street  to  street, 
across  piazzas  and  under  arches,  until  we  found  our- 
selves in  the  Via  Vecchia.  Well  named  indeed  is  this 
ancient  street,  for  the  Via  Vecchia  has  been  trodden 
by  the  foot  of  man  for  three  thousand  years!  This 
street,  with  its  high  buildings  of  heavy  Koman  work- 
manship, more  like  fortresses  than  dwelling-houses, 
leads  to  the  great  Arch  of  Augustus.  The  arch,  con- 
structed of  solid  blocks  of  travertine  and  sustained  by 
huge  buttresses,  is  adorned  by  a  graceful  pavilion 
and  loggia,  a  noble  monument  to  the  Roman  Emperor 
who  rebuilt  Perugia  and  inscribed  upon  its  gateway 
' '  Augusta  Perusia. ' ' 

After  we  had  revelled  for  a  couple  of  hours  in  the 
delight  of  strolling  about  in  the  open,  we  retraced 
our  steps  to  the  Via  Vanucci,  and  entered  the  Collegio 
del  Cambio,  in  whose  audience-chamber  are  many 
Perugino  frescoes,  all  lovely  save  a  horribly  realistic 
Beheading  of  John  the  Baptist,  from  which  we  were 
glad  to  turn  to  a  Nativity  and  a  Transfiguration  and 
to  the  noble  Sibyls  and  Prophets.  The  head  of  Daniel 
is  said  to  be  a  portrait  of  Perugino 's  greater  pupil, 
Raphael.  Even  if  Perugino  was  lacking  in  breadth 
and  sometimes  in  grace,  there  is  a  depth  and  delicacy 
of  color  in  his  work  and  so  much  sweetness  and  ten- 
derness in  the  faces  of  the  women  and  childreB.  that, 

176 


AN   UMBRIAN   IDYL 


as  we  stood  before  these  charming  groups,  we  could 
well  believe  that  this  Umbrian  artist  was,  as  his  chron- 
icler said,  "  possessed  of  a  stainless  purity  of  soul," 
and  that  Raphael  owed  much  to  his  early  master. 

Perugino  was  named  after  the  town,  not  of  his 
birth,  but  of  his  fame ;  mais,  de  grace,  monsieur,  I  do 
not  intend  to  give  you  a  disquisition  upon  the  Umbrian 
school  of  painting,  of  which  there  are  many  notable 
examples  in  the  churches  here  and  in  the  Pinacoteca. 
This  last,  let  me  explain,  is  the  name,  unpronounce- 
able by  English-speaking  people,  which  is  given  to  the 
picture-galleries  in  some  of  these  old  towns.  There 
are  really  treasures  of  art  in  Perugia,  with  whose 
beauties  I  might  fill  many  letters,  interesting  paint- 
ings by  Manni,  by  Bonfigli,  the  great  forerunner  of 
Perugino,  by  Pinturicchio,  his  associate,  and  by  many 
of  his  pupils;  and  in  the  Sala  del  Fra  Angelico  are 
some  of  the  exquisite  works  of  the  idealist  whose  name 
it  bears. 

The  Pinacoteca  Vanucci  is  on  the  third  floor  of  the 
Palazzo  del  Municipio.  The  doorway  of  this  palace, 
with  its  mediaeval  lions  and  griffins — the  emblem  of 
Perugia — in  exquisite  Gothic  carving  all  dominated 
by  three  saints,  presents  a  much  more  harmonious 
whole  than  this  confused  grouping  would  lead  one 
to  suppose. 

12  177 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


This  afternoon  we  drove  to  Lake  Thrasymene,  pass- 
ing the  tower  of  San  Manno,  with  its  Etruscan  in- 
scription, and  castles  and  battle-grounds  of  long  ago, 
until  we  reached  that  most  ancient  one  on  the  shores 
of  the  beautiful  lake  where  Hannibal  and  Flaminius 
fought  until  the  little  stream  ran  red  with  blood,  and 
so  ever  after  has  been  named  "  Sanguinetto. "  A 
grewsome  association  this,  with  a  fair  stream  of  run- 
ning water,  and  yet  how  much  more  euphonious,  espe- 
cially with  the  soft  Italian  lingering  over  syllables, 
than  our  American  equivalent  ' '  Bloody  Run !  ' ' 

April    30th. 

We  wandered  joyously  through  the  streets  and 
squares  of  the  old  town  this  morning,  for  here  one 
does  not  set  forth  to  walk  to  a  given  point — one  sim- 
ply wanders  at  will.  We  generally  cross  the  Piazza 
Vittorio  Emanuele,  with  its  heroic  statue  of  Italy's 
soldier  king,  stroll  along  the  Corso  Vanucci,  the  main 
street  of  the  town,  and  then  go  down  steps,  many  steps, 
which  descend  into  narrow  winding  streets  and  violi 
with  most  alluring  names,  as  Via  Curiosa,  Via  Delizi- 
osa,  Via  Bontempi,  and  the  like.  Angela  says  that  the 
last  sounds  delightfully  convivial  and  suggests  no 
end  of  a  good  time;  but  it  probably  means  nothing 
less  prosaic  than  good  weather. 

178 


AX   UMBRIAN   IDYL 


After  winding  in  and  out  of  narrow  streets  and  up 
and  down  steps,  all  exquisitely  picturesque  if  some- 
what fatiguing,  we  came  out  on  the  Piazza,  del  Muni- 
cipio  and  before  a  beautiful  thirteenth-century  foun- 
tain with  three  basins,  which  are  richly  decorated 
with  scriptural  and  mythological  figures.  The  many 
slender  columns  which  support  these  basins  give  to 
the  whole  a  charming  lightness  and  grace.  This  lovely 
fountain  of  Fra  Bevignate  was  without  water  for 
centuries  until,  in  1899,  the  new  aqueduct,  which 
comes  directly  from  the  springs  of  Nocera,  was  opened, 
whereupon  it  played  gayly  in  the  sunshine,  as  it  does 
to-day.  The  Nocera  water,  for  which,  bottled,  we 
paid  a  considerable  price  in  Rome,  is  free  as  air  on 
this  favored  hill-top. 

Facing  the  fountain  is  the  Cathedral  of  San 
Lorenzo.  To  the  left  of  the  doorway  is  a  bronze  statue 
of  Pope  Julian  III.,  who  restored  some  ancient  privi- 
leges to  the  Perugians,  and  on  the  right  is  a  handsome 
Gothic  pulpit  from  which  St.  Bernardino  once 
preached  to  the  faithful  in  the  square.  Inside  the 
cathedral  we  saw  the  beautiful  tomb  of  Bishop  Bagli- 
oni,  a  fine  Deposition  by  Baroccio,  and  a  miraculous 
picture  of  the  Madonna  delle  Grazie  by  Manni. 

San  Lorenzo  claims  the  distinction  of  being  the 
burial-place  of  three  popes,  Innocent  III.,  Urban  IV., 

179 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


and  Martin  IV.  Here,  too,  is  the  betrothal  ring  of 
the  Virgin.  This  precious  relic  is  preserved  in  a  silver 
casket  guarded  by  fifteen  locks,  the  keys  of  which 
are  entrusted  to  fifteen  persons  of  distinction,  and  is 
only  to  be  seen  five  times  during  the  year.  The  mys- 
tery and  exclusiveness  with  which  this  relic  is  guarded 
whetted  Zelphine's  curiosity,  and  she  insisted  that  it 
was  in  a  certain  sense  our  right  to  see  the  precious 
ring,  having  been  shown  the  hair  of  the  Blessed  Virgin 
in  Eome.  Angela  said  that  as  American  travellers  we 
had  a  right  to  see  anything  and  everything,  but,  as 
the  next  date  for  the  exhibition  of  the  ring  was  the 
second  Sunday  in  July,  the  real  question  at  issue  was, 
were  we  willing  to  stay  in  Perugia  so  long,  and,  even 
if  the  Perugians  were  disposed  to  make  an  earlier 
date  for  us,  was  it  likely  that  the  fifteen  persons  of 
distinction  with  their  fifteen  keys  could  be  collected 
on  short  notice?  From  my  own  observations,  I  was 
inclined  to  doubt  the  existence  of  fifteen  Perugians  of 
distinction  at  any  date.  However,  distinction  is  a 
descriptive  quite  as  subject  to  variations  as  the  clear 
or  cloudy  day  of  the  scientific  gentleman  who  arranges 
our  weather  for  us  in  America,  and  some  of  the  men 
whom  we  passed  on  the  piazza  this  morning  may  be 
lineal  descendants  of  the  ancient  lords  of  Perugia,  and 
now  in  possession  of  the  important  keys. 

180 


AN   UMBRIAN   IDYL 


The  celebrated  Sposalizio  of  Perugino — a  unique 
conception  of  the  Virgin's  espousal — which  should  be 
here  with  the  betrothal  ring,  has  unfortunately  been 
carried  off  to  France;  but  there  are  still  many  more 
treasures  in  painting  and  sculpture  in  San  Lorenzo 
than  we  could  appreciate  in  one  morning,  among  the 
latter  a  statue  of  Leo  XIII.,  who  was  Archbishop  of 
Perugia.  Over  across  the  piazza  is  the  Episcopal 
Palace,  where  this  Prince  of  the  Church  lived  for 
many  years,  preparing  himself  by  study  and  reflec- 
tion for  the  great  future  in  store  for  him.  "We  passed 
from  the  church  into  the  cloisters,  which  are  ruinous, 
but  charming,  as  are  all  the  ruins  here,  with  their  bits 
of  lovely  sculpture  and  flowers  growing  in  the 
' '  crannied  walls  ' '  and  on  the  little  balconies  above  our 
heads. 

Retracing  our  steps  along  the  Via  Bontempi,  and 
losing  ourselves  several  times,  after  the  fashion  of 
travellers  who  will  not  consent  to  have  their  pleasure 
interfered  with  by  guides,  we  reached  the  quaint 
covered  Via  della  Stalla  and  suddenly  emerged  upon 
a  gay  scene — the  Piazza  Garibaldi  on  a  market-day. 
Here  were  flowers  and  fruits  heaped  upon  wagons, 
and  booths  gay  with  colored  prints,  gorgeous  ker- 
chiefs, and  endless  lines  of  small  stockings  of  all  col- 
ors, which  the  Perugians  doubtless  buy  even  if  the 

181 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


feet  of  their  children  are  as  guiltless  of  covering  as 
those  of  the  Venus  and  Adonis.  The  stockings  are 
probably  for  Sundays  and  high  holidays.  Here  above 
all  were  the  peasants  from  the  surrounding  country, 
not  wearing  the  elaborate,  gayly  colored  costume  of 
the  Italian  peasants  of  our  childhood,  but  something 
more  picturesque  than  the  work-a-day  costume  that 
has  disappointed  us  so  much  through  Italy.  The 
older  women  had  brilliantly  colored  kerchiefs  on  their 
heads,  while  some  of  the  younger  women  wore  nothing 
upon  theirs  except  their  own  glossy,  luxuriant  hair, 
which  is  always  neatly  and  tastefully  dressed. 

We  have  often  wondered  why  there  are  so  many 
old  women  in  Italy.  Is  it  because  they  live  long  in 
this  favored  clime,  or,  sadder  thought,  do  the  young 
grow  old  early  under  the  heavy  strain  of  bread-win- 
ning, where  wages  are  low  and  the  mouths  to  be  filled 
numerous  ? 

Angela,  who  is  an  enthusiastic  shopper,  suggested 
that  we  should  stop  and  buy  some  of  the  native 
products,  urging  that  a  little  shopping  would  be  good 
for  us  all  and  relieve  our  minds  from  the  strain  of 
cathedrals,  statues,  and  tombs.  Indeed  the  fruit, 
flowers,  and  gay  handkerchiefs  displayed  upon  the 
booths  were  sufficiently  alluring  to  detain  us. 

Most  interesting  were  the  color,  movement,  and 
182 


AN   UMBRIAN   IDYL 


chatter  of  the  sunlit  piazza  against  the  gray  back- 
ground of  the  old  Palazzo  del  Podesta,  which  is 
built  on  the  ancient  Etruscan  wall.  It  is  just  such 
contrasts  that  make  these  old  Italian  towns  so 
charming. 

At  one  of  the  booths,  presided  over  by  a  pretty 
young  peasant  girl  with  eyes  of  brown  velvet,  Angela 
found  a  gay  red  and  yellow  bandana  which  she 
insisted  that  the  contadina  should  try  on.  The  effect 
was  so  charming  that  Zelphine  took  the  girl's  picture 
on  the  spot,  to  her  evident  delight.  Nothing  but  a 
brush  and  colors,  the  latter  well  mixed  with  the  atmos- 
pheric transparency  of  Perugia,  could  give  you  any 
idea  of  the  lovely  effect  of  the  girl's  soft,  dark  eyes 
and  the  peach-like  bloom  of  her  cheeks,  both  enhanced 
by  the  brilliant  head-dress.  Then  the  signorina  must 
try  on  a  kerchief.  "  Ecco!  ecco!  "  Carefully  select- 
ing one  of  dark  blue  with  a  yellow  border,  with  many 
exclamations  and  more  gestures  the  deft  peasant  fin- 
gers removed  Angela's  hat,  and  adjusted  the  kerchief 
over  her  golden  crescent  of  hair.  I  must  confess  that 
the  bandana  became  Angela  well  enough  to  excuse 
the  chorus  of  admiring  expressions  that  arose  from  a 
circle  of  voluble  crones  gathered  around  us.  "  Bella 
donna!  Bella  signorina!  "  was  heard  on  all  sides. 
Some  of  the  women  pressed  near  Angela  to  kiss  her 

183 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


hand,  saying  that  she  looked  like  the  pictures  of  the 
Madonna  over  there  in  the  cathedral.  The  child  was 
a  little  frightened,  and  drew  closer  to  me  for  protec- 
tion. Zelphine  cleverly  diverted  the  attention  of  the 
group  by  taking  Angela  and  the  pretty  young  Rosa 
Maria  across  the  piazza  to  the  large  door  of  the  old 
Palazzo  del  Podesta,  to  take  their  photographs  against 
this  fine  background.  Nothing  could  have  been  more 
charming  than  the  blonde  and  brunette  heads  and 
graceful  girlish  figures  against  the  old  palace  gateway. 
After  taking  two  or  three  pictures  Zelphine  thanked 
Rosa  Maria,  pressing  a  silver  coin  into  her  hand ;  upon 
which  she,  with  charming  ingenuousness,  intimated 
that  she  would  take  it  as  a  wedding-gift,  and,  beckon- 
ing to  a  handsome  young  peasant  whom  we  had 
noticed  standing  over  in  the  shadow  of  the  statue  of 
Giuseppe  Garibaldi,  she  presented  him  to  us  with 
smiles,  blushes,  and  courtesies.  Then,  as  we  gathered 
from  the  few  words  that  we  could  understand  and  by 
the  pair  standing  hand  in  hand  before  Zelphine, 
Umbrian  etiquette  demanded  that  she  should  take  a 
photograph  of  the  fidanzati  together,  which  congenial 
task  Zelphine  set  about  with  alacrity  before  shyness 
should  overcome  the  happy  couple. 

We  all  hope  that  the  pictures  may  prove  a  success, 
as  copies  are  to  be  sent  to  Rosa  Maria  and  Battista, 

184 


AN   UMBRIAN   IDYL 


whose  names  we  have  in  full,  their  address  being  the 
Central  Post  Office  of  Perugia,  where  they  are  always 
to  be  found  on  market-days. 

The  groom  elect  was  so  manly  and  gentle  and  the 
little  bride  so  sweet  and  confiding  that  they  both  won 
our  hearts.  We  left  them  with  good  wishes  on  our 
part  and  molte,  molte  grazie  on  theirs.  These  expres- 
sions were  in  view  of  our  small  contributions  toward  a 
little  household  soon  to  be  established  over  near  Spello. 
Angela,  in  a  sudden  enthusiasm  over  this  charming 
picture  of  young  love,  unfastened  a  pretty  chain  that 
she  wears  around  her  neck,  and  linked  it  about  that  of 
Rosa  Maria.  We  shall  long  remember  the  lovers  as  we 
left  them,  standing  hand  in  hand  on  the  sunlit  Piazza 
Garibaldi  under  the  shadow  of  the  ancient  Gateway  of 
Justice,  and  they,  I  am  sure,  will  never  forget  the 
forestieri,  above  all  the  bella  signorina.  They  will 
show  their  children  the  pictures  and  tell  them  they 
were  taken  on  the  old  piazza ;  and,  to  be  quite  foreign 
in  my  prophecy,  I  am  certain  that  they  will  name  their 
first  daughter  Angela. 

From  this  "  charming  bit  of  local  color,"  as  Zel- 
phine  catalogues  our  little  adventure,  we  returned  to 
Rosa  Maria 's  booth,  now  presided  over  by  her  mother, 
and  bought  many  other  bits  of  local  color  in  the  form 
of  kerchiefs — Angela  more  than  any  of  us.  As  she 

185 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 

succumbed  to  the  temptation  of  each  one,  she  excused 
herself  by  saying,  "  These  people  are  so  poor,  Marga- 
ret! "  or  "  That  gay  red  one  will  make  a  fine  bandana 
for  old  Susan!  "  or  "  This  will  cover  the  little  table 
in  my  morning-room."  As  we  are  travelling  with 
only  dress-suit-cases,  which  are  crowded  with  the  bare 
necessities  of  life,  I  know  not  how  we  are  to  dispose 
of  these  new  possessions,  to  which  Zelphine  has  added 
a  number  of  books  about  Perugia  and  Assisi.  She  is 
still  lugging  around  the  beloved  Narcissus,  from  Pom- 
peii, because  she  will  trust  him  to  no  trunk. 

After  our  delightfully  vagrant  forenoon  and  a  sub- 
stantial breakfast,  for  which  we  were  quite  ready,  we 
decided  to  dedicate  the  afternoon  to  tombs.  We  had 
intended  to  visit  the  famous  Etruscan  tombs  on  our 
way  to  Assisi,  driving  thither  after  the  conventional 
fashion  of  Perugian  tourists,  but,  hearing  from  some 
of  our  countrymen  who  sit  near  us  at  the  table  d'hote 
that  there  are  two  or  three  fairly  good  inns  in  Assisi, 
we  have  decided  to  go  there  by  rail  to-morrow,  and 
thus  have  a  Sunday  in  the  good  company  of  the  blessed 
St.  Francis. 

Angela  flatly  refused  to  go  on  the  afternoon  expedi- 
tion, saying  that  she  had  taken  a  full  course  on  tombs 
in  Rome  and  would  have  no  more  of  them,  so  Zelphine 
and  I  drove  alone  to  the  ancient  Etruscan  Necropolis 

186 


AN   UMBRIAN   IDYL 


of  Perugia,  a  drive  of  not  over  an  hour  from  the  Porta 
Romana.  These  tomb  chambers  of  the  Volumnii  are 
most  interesting,  with  their  portrait  figures  in  terra- 
cotta and  carvings  of  sun-gods  and  dolphins,  quite 
different  from  anything  we  have  seen  except  in 
Orvieto,  and,  as  Angela  says,  we  have  had  experience 
in  tombs.  Zelphine  and  I  were  much  impressed  by  the 
fact  that  these  massive  stone  tombs  of  the  third  cent- 
ury B.  C.  should  have  been  buried  under  the  earth 
until  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  when  a  peasant 
discovered  them  while  ploughing.  Another  story  is 
that  the  tombs  were  unearthed  when  the  new  road  was 
being  made,  but  Zelphine  and  I  prefer  the  tale  about 
the  peasant  ploughing.  After  all,  it  matters  little 
which  tradition  we  adopt;  the  wonder  remains  that 
these  richly  adorned  sarcophagi  still  testify  to  the 
wealth  and  artistic  ability  of  the  Etruscans  of  more 
than  twenty-five  centuries  ago. 

So  much  history  lies  underground  in  this  land  of 
the  past  that  we  do  well  to  tread  softly  lest  we  be,  at 
any  moment,  walking  over  graves,  pagan  or  Christian ; 
and  yet  these  devout  Italians  are  far  less  jealous  of 
the  desecrating  foot  of  the  stranger  than  the  ' '  heathen 
Chinee." 

"\Yhen  we  returned  from  our  drive  we  found  Angela 
in  the  gayest  of  moods,  having  evidently  enjoyed  her 

187 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


respite  from  sight-seeing.  She  had  met  some  Amer- 
ican acquaintances,  and  had  afternoon  tea  with  Mrs. 
Allen  and  her  fascinating  children  in  the  charming 
hall  at  the  Bruf  ani,  where  one  may  sit  under  the  shade 

of  palm-trees  all  the  year  round. 

May  1st. 

Our  modest  luggage  is  in  the  hall  in  charge  of  sev- 
eral porters  and  facchini,  and  while  we  wait  for  the 
cab  that  is  to  take  us  to  the  station,  I  jot  down  a  few 
impressions  before  they  are  dimmed  or  quite  swept 
away  by  the  interests  of  our  next  stopping-place. 
One  should  really  have  two  or  three  days  in  an  abso- 
lutely dull  and  unattractive  place,  if  such  a  spot  is  to 
be  found  in  Italy,  after  each  one  of  these  entran- 
cing cities  and  towns.  Our  minds  are  steeped  with 
the  beauties  and  associations  of  Perugia,  and  now 
Assisi  will  overwhelm  us  with  its  own  charm. 

Our  way  this  morning  was  down  the  Via  Marzia 
and  the  great  stone  steps  of  San  Ercolano,  by  the 
church  of  the  same  name,  which  is  built  against  the 
Etruscan  wall.  I  wondered  why  Hercules  should  have 
been  canonized;  but  we  learned  afterwards  that  this 
curious  octagonal  church  was  built  in  honor  of  Peru- 
gia's  patron  saint,  the  heroic  Bishop  Ercolano,  who 
defended  his  city  against  the  Goths  thirteen  hundred 
years  ago.  From  the  Church  of  San  Ercolano  we 

188 


AN   UMBRIAX   IDYL 


passed  on  to  the  Corso  Cavour  and  the  Church  of  San 
Domenico,  which  has  the  distinction  of  possessing  the 
largest  Gothic  window  in  Italy.  Here  also  is  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  tombs  we  have  seen  anywhere,  that 
of  Pope  Benedict  XI.  This  fine  monument,  designed 
by  Giovanni  Pisano,  represents  Benedict  asleep, 
guarded  by  two  angels.  Above  the  face  and  figure, 
which  are  lovely  in  their  perfect  repose,  is  a  lofty 
canopy  supported  by  graceful  spiral  columns.  Bits 
of  the  fine  mosaic  with  which  this  tomb  was  once 
enriched  are  to  be  found  here  and  there,  the  greater 
part  having  been  carried  off  by  Napoleon's  soldiers, 
who  seem  to  have  played  much  the  same  role  in  the 
destruction  and  sacking  of  Italian  churches  as  that 
enacted  by  Cromwell's  army  in  England.  Indeed  I 
never  before  realized  the  ruthless  manner  in  which 
the  French  army  ravaged  this  land  of  beauty  and  art ; 
we  hear  so  much  less  of  its  depredations  than  of 
those  of  the  Roundheads. 

Zelphine,  who,  for  some  unaccountable  reason, 
includes  the  conqueror  of  Europe  among  her  heroes, 
undertook  to  defend  him,  while  Angela,  who,  perhaps 
with  more  justice,  reckons  Cromwell  among  hers, 
resented  my  mentioning  the  French  and  English  sol- 
diers in  the  same  breath,  which  led  to  an  animated 
discussion,  in  the  midst  of  which  we  passed  through 

189 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 

the  beautiful  and  richly  decorated  Porta  San  Pietro, 
and  so  on  to  the  old  Benedictine  monastery,  which  is 
now  used  for  a  very  practical  purpose,  that  of  an  insti- 
tute for  experimental  agriculture.  Seeing  large 
bunches  of  millet  and  other  cereals  over  the  fine  old 
doors,  we  thought  we  had  made  a  mistake,  but  some 
peasants  at  work  on  the  road  assured  us  that  San 
Pietro  was  just  beyond. 

After  passing  through  the  agricultural  school  we 
crossed  the  courtyard,  and  entered  the  great  doorway 
of  beautiful  carved  stone-work,  and  so  found  ourselves 
in  the  basilica,  which,  with  its  flat,  elaborately  deco- 
rated ceiling,  its  high  altar  adorned  with  lapis  lazuli, 
agate,  and  other  colored  stones,  and  its  many  columns 
of  granite  and  marble,  is  wonderfully  rich  in  depth 
and  harmony  of  color.  Around  the  sides  of  the  church 
are  a  number  of  large  paintings  by  Vassilacchi,  two 
by  Guido  Reni,  and  some  charming  little  paintings  by 
Sassoferrato.  But  the  crowning  glory  of  the  basilica, 
the  great  Perugino  of  the  Assumption,  has  been  car- 
ried off  to  France,  although  the  five  saints  that  once 
surrounded  it  still  hover  above  the  altar. 

The  exquisitely  carved  choir-stalls  of  San  Pietro, 
attributed  to  Raphael,  are  the  most  beautiful  that  we 
have  seen  anywhere.  The  lovely  traceries,  the  infinite 
variety  of  faces  and  figures,  the  quaint  masks  inter- 

190 


AN   UMBRIAN   IDYL 


spersed  with  carvings  of  beasts,  birds,  and  flowers, 
could  only  have  been  designed  by  an  artist  of  delicate 
fancy  and  marvellous  genius. 

The  verger  opened  the  great  doors  at  the  back  of 
the  church,  thus  disclosing  a  noble  panorama  of  dis- 
tant hills  and  fertile  valleys. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  road  is  the  Giardino  del 
Frontone,  and  beyond,  the  Porta  San  Costanzo, 
inside  of  which  is  a  church  of  the  same  name,  dedi- 
cated to  the  patron  saint  of  all  Perugian  lovers.  Here 
many  happy  couples  are  to  be  seen  wending  their  way 
along  the  hillside  park,  to  gain  the  blessing  of  the 
unlovely  Byzantine  Madonna  who  presides  over  the 
marble  doorway  of  San  Costanzo.  Beyond  the  gar- 
den and  the  church  lies  the  wide-spread  Umbrian 
plain,  girt  about  by  the  ample  belt  of  the  Apennines. 
Off  to  the  north  and  west  are  Cortona  and  Siena,  with 
Lago  Trasimeno  between,  quite  near,  although  shut 
off  from  us  by  a  screen  of  green  hills.  To  the  south, 
following  the  windings  of  the  Tiber,  lies  Rome,  where 
our  hearts  still  linger,  and  to  the  east,  so  near  that 
we  can  see  the  twinkling  of  their  lights  at  night,  are 
Foligno  and  Spello  and  Assisi,  which  last,  we  are  told, 
we  shall  end  by  loving  more  than  any  other  spot  in 
Italy. 


191 


XIII 
A   SUNDAY    IN   ASSISI 


ASSIST,  Saturday  Evening,  May  1st. 

As  we  first  beheld  Assisi  from  the  railroad  station 
at  sunset,  the  delicate  mauve  pink  of  her  towers  and 
walls  glowed  with  a  more  rosy  hue  and  it  seemed  as  if 
the  old  town  for  a  brief  moment  must  have  worn  some- 
thing of  the  grace  of  her  long-vanished  youth. 

On  one  side  of  the  station  is  the  little  village  of  the 
plain,  Santa  Maria  degli  Angeli,  with  the  church  from 
which  it  takes  its  name,  so  christened  by  St.  Francis 
in  memory  of  the  angelic  visions  here  granted  him. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  road,  across  a  sweep  of  green 
meadows,  is  the  town,  built  upon  terraces  half-way  up 
the  hill,  Mount  Subasio  towering  beyond  it  to  a  height 
of  over  three  thousand  feet  above  the  sea-level.  The 
crowning  glory  of  Assisi  is  the  great  basilica  of  San 
Francesco,  with  its  remarkable  substructure — a  vast 
colonnaded  monastery  standing  guard  over  the  happy 
valley  beneath. 

Our  approach  was  by  winding  roads  bordered  by 
hedges,  with  fields  beyond  green  as  England  and 


A   SUNDAY  IN  ASSIST 


bright  as  Italy  alone,  all  abloom  to-day  with  poppies 
and  buttercups.  Up  and  up  the  shining  way  climbed 
the  shabby  vettura  with  its  lean  horse,  until  we  seemed 
to  be  getting  near  the  blue  of  the  sky,  so  close  does 
the  arch  of  heaven  lean  to  these  hill  towns  of  Italy. 

We  all  felt  that  we  had  left  the  world  of  to-day  far 
behind  us  when  we  drove  through  the  ancient  Porta 
San  Francesco,  so  entirely  does  Assisi  belong  to  the 
past.  Here  wrhere  everything  is  ancient  one  ceases  to 
make  comparisons,  and  it  seemed  no  more  remarkable 
to  find  a  Temple  of  Minerva  standing  beside  twelfth- 
century  buildings,  than  that  we  three  twentieth-cent- 
ury Americans  should  be  driving  about  these  old 
streets,  hearing  the  vetturino  talk  about  St.  Francis 
as  if  he  had  lived  but  yesterday. 

You  really  must  not  expect  an  ordinary  letter  of 
to-day  from  this  place,  where  we  are  so  absolutely 
dominated  by  the  twelfth  century.  Zelphine,  who  is 
in  a  state  of  rapture  and  quite  lifted  above  the  ordin- 
ary affairs  of  life,  is  probably  writing  a  poem  at  this 
moment,  having  been  incited  thereto  by  the  history  of 
Assisi 's  celebrated  poet,  Propertius,  which  she  has 
just  read  to  us  from  a  charming  little  book  which 
she  found  in  Perugia.  The  story  runs  thus :  Proper- 
tius, who  was  a  contemporary  of  Virgil  and  Horace, 
relinquished  the  congenial  atmosphere  of  Rome  and 
13  193 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


the  friendly  companionship  of  the  author  of  the 
' '  Metamorphoses  ' '  for  the  love  of  his  Umbrian  birth- 
place, where  the  Muse  had  first  visited  him.  Recog- 
nized in  his  own  day  as  the  leader  of  a  new  school  of 
poetry,  Propertius  appreciated  his  own  powers  suf- 
ficiently to  write  of  himself  in  connection  with  his 
native  town :  ' '  Ancient  Umbria  gave  thee  birth,  from 
a  noted  household.  Do  I  mistake,  or  do  I  touch 
rightly  the  region  of  your  home,  where  misty  Mevania 
stands  among  the  dews  of  the  hill-girt  plain,  and  the 
waters  of  the  Umbrian  lake  grow  warm  the  summer 
through,  and  where  on  the  summit  of  mounting  Asis 
rise  the  walls  to  which  genius  has  added  glory  ?  ' '  His 
own  genius !  And  yet,  to  prove  to  us  that  he  was  not 
wanting  in  modesty,  Propertius  has  placed  this  charm- 
ing compliment  in  the  mouth  of  a  soothsayer.  If  this 
is  all  familiar  to  you,  0  most  learned,  it  is  so  fresh 
to  me  that  you  must  allow  me  to  repeat  it,  because  it 
reveals  once  more  the  truth  of  the  Scriptures — that  a 
prophet  is  not  without  honor  save  in  his  own  country. 
Propertius  would  not  have  been  forced  to  sing  his  own 
praises  if  his  contemporaries  had  sung  them  in  the 
right  key. 

The  little  inn  at  which  we  are  stopping,  with  its 
bare,  stone  floors  and  whitewashed  walls,  is  quite 
primitive  enough  to  have  suited  St.  Francis  and  his 

194 


A   SUNDAY   IN   ASSISI 


brothers.  We  are  told  that  there  is  another  and  larger 
hotel,  which  is  more  modern  in  its  appointments. 

' '  The  idea  of  caring  for  a  modern  hotel  or  anything 
modern  in  Assisi!  "  exclaimed  Zelphine,  walking  with 
me  toward  the  window  of  one  of  the  rooms  offered  us. 

A  single  glance  out  of  that  window  decided  us  to 
stay.  The  Albergo  Giotto  is  built  on  a  cliff,  and  lit- 
erally overhangs  the  valley.  From  our  windows  we 
look  out  upon  green  slopes  billowing  beneath  us  until 
they  break  away  into  the  long  reaches  of  the  plain, 
where  the  dome  of  St.  Mary  of  the  Angels  stands  out 
against  the  sky. 

HOTEL  GIOTTO,  ASSIST,  Sunday,  May  2d. 

A  May-day  in  Assisi ! — could  anything  be  more 
delightful? 

Last  night,  after  dinner,  or  supper,  or  whatever  the 
nondescript  meal  is  called  which  was  served  to  us  in 
the  chilly  salle  a  manger,  a  little  lady,  unmistakably 
American  and  evidently  fresh  from  a  study  of  the 
hotel  register,  joined  us,  and  asked  Zelphine  if  she 
were  Miss  Vernon,  and  did  she  happen  to  know  Dr. 
Vernon  of  New  York?  Zelphine,  who  adores  her 
brother,  Dr.  Vernon,  and  is  immensely  proud  of  him, 
was  quite  ready  to  fall  upon  the  little  lady's  neck 
when  she  found  that  she  was  one  of  his  admiring 

195 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


patients,  and  we  all  adopted  her  at  once,  she,  Miss 
Homer  by  name,  being  alone  and  glad  to  be  adopted, 
as  lonely  women  usually  are  in  remote  places. 

I  spoke  to  a  bright-faced  girl  who  sat  on  my  right 
at  table,  and  after  some  conversation  learned  that  she 
had  come  from  an  old  Pennsylvania  town  in  which 
we  have  many  friends  and  acquaintances.  Miss  Morris 
is  also  alone,  and  we  have  adopted  her.  Angela  says 
that  our  party  is  growing  too  rapidly,  and  that  we 
really  must  stop  attaching  waifs  and  strays,  even  if 
their  precious  lives  have  been  saved  by  our  brothers, 
and  their  social  status  established  by  the  most  irre- 
proachable visiting-lists.  Angela  may  be  right;  but 
after  all  we  found  it  so  cheering  to  gather  around  the 
table  in  the  reading-room  and  talk  over  friends  at 
home  that  we  quite  forgot  that  we  had  intended  to 
spend  this  evening  in  storing  our  minds  with  the  his- 
tory and  traditions  of  Assisi. 

As  I  was  drifting  away  into  dreamland  to  the  sound 
of  some  sweet,  distant  bells  (the  bells  are  always  ring- 
ing in  Assisi),  Zelphine  called  in  to  me  from  her  room, 
"  Do  you  think  there  is  a  spot  on  the  habitable  globe 
where  one  would  not  be  likely  to  meet  some  person 
wrho  had  known  some  one  who  had  met  a  friend  of 
our  friends  ?  ' '  With  this  puzzle  floating  through  my 
inind,  rather  hazily  I  confess,  I  fell  asleep,  soothed 

196 


A   SUNDAY  IN  ASSIST 


by  a  pleasant  sense  of  the  smallness  of  the  world  and 
the  friendliness  of  the  inhabitants  thereof. 

This  morning  we  banished  from  our  minds  all  irrel- 
evant present-century  associations,  and  have  spent  our 
Sunday  in  the  goodly  company  of  the  early  Francis- 
cans. An  enthusiastic  party  of  five,  for  even  Angela 
has  succumbed  to  the  influences  of  Assisi,  we  made 
our  way  to  the  Church  of  San  Francesco,  which  we 
approached  across  a  wide  piazza  framed  on  both  sides 
by  long  arcades.  Through  the  great  Gothic  portal, 
with  its  rich  carvings,  we  passed  into  the  twilight 
beauty  of  the  lower  church,  for  even  on  a  bright  May 
morning  the  light  in  this  vast  basilica  is  "  dim  and 
religious."  The  arches  of  the  nave  and  chapel  are 
richly  decorated,  as  you  will  see  from  the  pictures 
that  I  send  you;  but  it  was  not  until  we  reached  the 
south  end  of  the  eastern  transept  that  we  realized  the 
full  beauty  of  these  decorations,  whose  color  glowed 
like  jewels  in  the  light  that  reached  them  from  three 
windows  in  the  far  apse.  Over  the  vaulting  above  the 
high  altar  are  the  wonderful  frescoes  of  Giotto.  In 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  these  paintings  the  artist 
has  represented  the  marriage  of  Francis  with  Lady 
Poverty.  The  cold,  pale  bride,  her  white  robe  torn  by 
the  acacia  thorns  around  her,  draws  away  from  her 
lover  as  if  to  warn  him  of  the  trials  and  hardships 

197 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


that  are  in  store  for  him  who  links  his  life  with  hers. 

She,  who,  as  Dante  says, 

"  slighted  and  obscure, 

Thousand  and  hundred  years  and  more  remain'd 
Without  a  single  suitor,  till  he  came," 

is  now  crowned  with  love  and  honor  by  the  adoring 
Francis.  Dante's  face  appears  among  the  many  rep- 
resentative and  mythological  spectators  who  are  gath- 
ered around  the  altar,  where  Christ  himself  gives  the 
hand  of  the  saint  to  the  Lady  Poverty,  while  the 
angels  above  rejoice  over  the  holy  marriage.  A  won- 
derful conception  is  this,  rich  in  color  and  in  devo- 
tional feeling,  worthy  of  the  hand  and  mind  of  the 
realistic  and  imaginative  Giotto. 

After  studying  the  four  symbolic  compositions 
above  the  high  altar  we  turned  to  Cimabue's  work 
in  the  western  transept,  of  which  in  many  places  only 
the  lovely  lines  remain,  as  much  of  the  color  has  faded 
out.  If  only  something  could  be  done  to  save  the 
noble,  sincere  work  of  those  who  are  now  recognized 
as  early  masters  and  regenerators  of  art !  The  colors 
are  fading  so  fast  from  the  walls  of  San  Francesco 
that  very  soon  these  valuable  frescoes  will  be  lost  to 
the  world. 

As  we  turned  to  enter  the  sacristy,  from  which  a 
stairway  leads  to  the  upper  church,  Miss  Morris  called 

198 


A  SUNDAY  IN  ASSIST 


our  attention  to  a  very  interesting  fresco  of  the 
Madonna  and  Child  near  the  door  of  the  sacristy.  In 
this  charming  little  painting  the  Madonna,  instead  of 
gazing  upon  the  Child  with  adoring  love  or  placid 
content,  as  in  so  many  pictures,  looks  into  his  uplifted 
face  with  a  wondering,  questioning  look  in  her  eyes. 
Miss  Morris,  who  is  not  only  an  artist  of  some  merit 
but  an  investigator  of  no  mean  order,  stood  before 
the  painting  and  looked  her  questions,  upon  which 
our  guide  explained,  partly  in  English  and  more  in 
Italian,  that  in  this  picture,  by  Lorenzetti,  the  Bam- 
bino is  represented  as  speaking  for  the  first  time.  The 
figures  are  a  bit  stiff  and  wooden,  but  the  face  of  St. 
Francis,  on  the  left,  is  full  of  devotional  feeling,  and 
there  is  something  indescribably  touching  in  the  atti- 
tude of  the  Child  as  he  turns  lovingly  and  confidingly 
toward  his  mother,  with  words  upon  his  baby  lips  that 
all  Christendom  would  gladly  hear.  We  missed  Miss 
Morris  an  hour  later,  when  we  were  crossing  the 
piazza,  and  found  that  she  had  returned  to  the  little 
fresco,  drawn  to  it  by  an  irresistible  fascination. 

From  a  narrow  winding  stairway  we  stepped  into 
the  lofty,  spacious  upper  church,  lighted  by  large, 
three-storied  Gothic  windows  which  flood  the  interior 
with  sunshine.  Here  in  twenty-eight  great  frescoes, 
executed  by  the  pupils  of  Giotto,  more  or  less  faded 

199 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


and  in  some  places  badly  restored,  we  followed  the 
life  of  St.  Francis  from  the  early  days  when  he  is  rep- 
resented as  giving  his  cloak  to  a  beggar  to  his  final 
parting  with  his  brothers. 

When  we  at  last  emerged  from  the  upper  church 
and  made  our  way  down  the  outside  stairway  to  the 
piazza,  the  scene  which  met  our  eyes  seemed  strangely 
modern  and  bizarre  to  us  whose  minds  were  filled  with 
thoughts  of  St.  Francis  and  his  holy  life.  All  along 
the  side  of  the  piazza  were  long  tables  filled  with 
relics,  rosaries,  and  the  ubiquitous  postal-card,  which 
represents  everything,  real  or  imaginable,  that  has 
been  seen  or  could  be  seen  in  Assisi.  Old  women  and 
little  girls  were  spreading  out  their  wares  under  the 
very  shadow  of  the  sanctuary,  and  we,  noticing  the 
pinched,  careworn  faces  of  the  women  and  the  poor, 
scanty  clothing  of  the  pretty  little  girls  who  helped 
them,  could  not  grudge  them  the  limited  revenue  that 
comes  to  them  from  their  Sunday  sales.  The  little 
money  that  reaches  these  Assisian  peasants  is  chiefly 
from  tourists,  and  from  a  lace-making  industry  that 
has  recently  been  established  here.  Miss  Morris  says 
that  these  old  women  were  intoxicated 'with  delight 
over  the  brilliancy  of  their  financial  prospects  when 
they  were  told  that  they  could  make  ten  cents  a  day 
by  lacework,  if  they  plied  their  needles  and  shuttles 

200 


A  SUNDAY  IN  ASSIST 


industriously.     Does  not  everything  in  life  depend 
upon  the  point  of  view? 

When  we  finally  turned  from  the  piazza,  we 
accepted  the  eagerly  offered  guidance  of  a  lad  of  four- 
teen or  fifteen,  who  led  us  through  steep,  narrow 
streets  and  under  heavy  stone  arches  to  the  Chiesa 
Nuova.  Within  the  walls  of  this  so-called  new  church 
is  the  house  of  the  once  prosperous  cloth-merchant 
Pietro  Bernardone,  the  home  in  which  St.  Francis 
spent  his  early  years.  A  peasant  woman  unlocked  a 
heavy  wooden  door  and  showed  us  with  reverent  pride 
the  stable  in  which  St.  Francis  was  born,  and  our 
young  guide  spelled  out  with  care  the  inscription  upon 
one  side  of  the  church  wall  which  records  that  here 
the  Madonna  Pica,  the  mother  of  Francis,  had  a  vision 
of  the  future  greatness  of  her  long-desired  son.  The 
sacristan  opened  the  door  of  a  cell  in  the  wall  where 
Francis  was  confined  by  his  father  in  the  hope  of 
disenchanting  his  son  with  his  chosen  bride,  the  Lady 
Poverty,  and  perhaps,  as  Angela  suggested,  to  punish 
him  for  having  taken  good  cloth  from  the  paternal 
storehouse  and  given  it  to  the  Church.  Zelphine  was 
shocked  at  the  idea  of  any  one  thinking  that  St. 
Francis  could  ever  have  done  anything  wrong ;  but  as 
the  gift  of  cloth  figures  quite  prominently  in  the  nar- 
rative and  involves  a  nice  question  in  ethics,  we  dis- 

201 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


cussed  the  question,  with  some  warmth,  on  our  way  to 
the  Church  of  Santa  Chiara,  which  is  at  the  eastern 
end  of  the  town. 

This  church,  handsome  as  it  is,  with  its  pink  and 
white  stone,  vast  flying  buttresses,  and  beautiful  rose- 
window,  interested  us  far  less  than  Santa  Chiara 's 
convent,  the  San  Damiano,  which  we  visited  later  in 
the  morning.  We  all  regretted  that  we  had  gone  down 
into  the  crypt  at  Santa  Chiara  to  see  the  tomb  of  the 
founder  of  the  Poor  Clares  and  the  friend  of  St. 
Francis.  We  would  so  much  rather  think  of  the 
gentle  abbess  at  San  Damiano  than  lying  under  a 
glass  case  in  the  dark  crypt,  the  once  beautiful  face, 
which  is  quite  clearly  outlined  against  her  veil,  dark- 
ened by  time  and  no  longer  beautiful.  We  turned 
hastily  from  the  crypt,  and  were  glad  to  be  again  in 
the  open  air  and  under  the  blue  sky  wending  our  way 
to  Clare's  hillside  convent,  which  is  only  second  in 
interest  to  the  basilica  of  San  Francesco. 

It  was  after  Clare,  the  daughter  of  Count  Favorino 
Scifi,  had  listened  to  the  preaching  of  St.  Francis,  and 
decided  to  devote  her  life  to  works  of  love  and  mercy, 
that  he  prepared  the  San  Damiano  as  a  retreat  for 
her  and  other  noble  ladies  who  desired  to  accompany 
her.  From  the  hour  when  the  high-born  maiden,  Clare 

Scifi,  yielded  to  the  burning  eloquence  of  Francis  Ber- 

202 


A   SUNDAY   IN   ASSIST 


nardone,  to  the  day  of  her  death,  her  story  is  sur- 
rounded by  all  the  charm  of  mediaeval  romance.  The 
door  of  the  Palazzo  Scifi  is  still  shown  through  which 
Clare  escaped  at  night  and  made  her  way  to  the  Por- 
tiuncula,  where,  in  the  presence  of  her  aunt  Bianca 
Guelfucci  and  several  companions,  she  took  upon  her- 
self the  vows  of  poverty  and  obedience.  The  picture 
of  the  beautiful  girl  kneeling  before  the  altar  in  the 
dim  light  of  the  Portiuncula,  while  the  golden  glory 
of  her  fair  hair  is  shorn  from  her  head,  is  one  that 
has  captivated  the  artist  as  it  does  the  traveller. 
Every  part  of  the  Convent  of  San  Damiano  is  asso- 
ciated with  the  lovely  young  abbess.  Standing  in  the 
tiny  terrace  garden,  with  its  few  straggling  wall- 
flowers, we  imagined  Clare  taking  the  air  in  the  bloom 
of  the  lilies,  surrounded  by  her  nuns.  Here  is  the  cell 
where  she  lay  ill,  when  tidings  reached  the  quiet  eon- 
vent  that  a  detachment  of  Saracen  troops  was  advan- 
cing toward  Assisi.  The  sisters  gathered  around  the 
abbess  like  so  many  frightened  doves ;  the  bold  invad- 
ers were  already  scaling  the  walls,  when  Clare,  who 
was  endowed  with  the  high  courage  of  her  race, 
appeared  at  an  upper  window,  holding  aloft  the  chal- 
ice containing  the  Blessed  Sacrament,  which  she  was 
allowed  to  keep  in  a  little  chapel  near  her  cell.  At 
the  sight  of  the  holy  and  beautiful  vision,  so  runs 

203 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 

the  legend,  the  soldiers  upon  the  walls  dropped  to  the 
ground  and  fled  across  the  plain.  As  we  saw  the  little 
convent,  peaceful  and  bathed  in  the  bright  sunshine 
of  May,  it  was  difficult  to  imagine  the  confusion  and 
terror  that  reigned  there  seven  hundred  years  ago. 

Still  under  the  spell  of  Francis  and  Clare,  whose 
story  seems  to  be  on  the  lips  of  all  Assisi,  young  and 
old,  we  spent  the  long  spring  afternoon  in  the  basilica 
of  St.  Mary  of  the  Angels.  The  brother  who  showed 
us  about  the  church,  a  namesake  of  Assisi 's  saint, 
spoke  fairly  good  English,  of  which  he  was  as  proud 
as  a  Franciscan  could  venture  to  be,  and  took  pleasure 
in  relating  to  us  some  quaint  and  homely  tales  of  the 
early  days  of  the  order.  More  especially  did  the  good 
brother  delight  in  speaking  of  the  love  of  his  Father 
Francis  for  the  wild  creatures  of  the  wood,  which 
instinctively  turned  to  him  for  protection.  One  day  a 
leveret  hid  itself  in  the  folds  of  his  gown,  and  upon 
another  a  timid  hare  sought  shelter  in  his  breast,  still 
returning  into  the  father's  bosom,  he  said,  "as  if  it 
had  some  hidden  sense  of  the  pitifulness  of  his  heart." 

When  Angela  spoke  of  the  story  that  we  had  just 
been  reading  of  Brother  Juniper  and  the  chickens,  the 
brother  laughed  heartily,  and  said:  "  Chickens  is 
goot ;  but  Brother  Juniper  spoiled  his  by  cooking  the 
two  weeks'  portion  of  chickens  in  one  day,  and  with 

204 


A  SUNDAY  IN   ASSISI 


the  feathers  on,  to  save  much  time  for  prayer ;  but  it 
was  not  goot,  and  the  brothers  was  angry. ' ' 

Do  you  remember  the  story,  Allan? — how  Brother 
Juniper  set  the  stew  upon  the  table,  "  crying  up  his 
wares  to  find  a  customer  for  his  unsavory  dish,  when, ' ' 
as  the  chronicler  quaintly  added,  "  there  was  not  a 
pig  in  all  the  land  of  Rome  so  famished  as  to  have 
eaten  it." 

"  But  he  was  goot,"  said  our  guide,  "  Brother 
Juniper  was  goot,  and  the  guardian  forgive  him,  and 
he  was  goot  when  he  cut  off  the  pig's  foot  and  cooked 
it  for  to  make  the  sick  man  well,  and  the  herdsman 
forgive  him  this  time  and  brought  the  maimed  pig  all 
killed  and  roasted  for  the  brothers  at  St.  Mary  of  the 
Little  Portion  to  eat  of  it." 

"  This  must  have  been  the  occasion,"  said  Miss 
Morris,  "  when  St.  Francis  exclaimed,  '  Would  to 
God,  my  brothers,  that  I  had  a  whole  forest  of  such 
Junipers!'  ' 

' '  Yes,  yes, ' '  said  the  brother,  ' '  roast  pig  is  goot, ' ' 
leading  us,  as  he  talked,  from  the  modern  pictures  that 
adorn  the  many  chapels  of  this  large  church  to  the  most 
interesting  object  within  its  walls,  the  Portiuncula. 
Here,  surrounded  by  much  that  is  too  modern  to  be  in 
harmony  with  the  old,  is  the  simple  little  Portiuncula, 
within  whose  walls  many  pilgrims,  Protestant  and 

205 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


Catholic,  kneel  feeling  that  this  is  a  holy  spot,  for  here 
were  born  the  high  purposes  and  noble  aspirations  that 
led  to  a  great  movement  for  purer  religion  in  the  Chris- 
tian world.  Near  the  Portiuncula,  under  the  same 
roof,  is  the  rude  hut  in  which  St.  Francis  spent  his 
last  days,  and  here,  opening  out  from  the  cloisters,  is 
the  little  rose-garden  which  witnessed  his  earlier 
struggles  with  the  powers  of  darkness.  The  rose- 
bushes are  still  free  from  thorns,  a  miracle,  the  good 
brother  tells  us,  and  spotted  with  blood.  The  green 
leaves  are  covered  with  brown  spots,  the  stems  are 
thornless.  We  look  at  them  as  we  listen  to  the  earnest 
words  of  our  guide ;  the  spell  is  still  upon  us,  we  offer 
no  word  of  dissent ;  for  whether  the  thornless  rose-tree 
is  natural  or  miraculous,  whether  the  spots  on  the 
leaves  are  from  blood  or  rust,  the  truth  remains  that 
this  little  garden  witnessed  the  struggle  of  a  human 
soul,  and  from  its  soil  there  arose  something  more 
wonderful  than  the  greatest  miracle  over  material 
forces  ever  recorded — a  soul  born  from  clouds  and 
darkness  into  life  and  light  eternal. 

An  overwhelming  sense  of  Italy,  of  what  it  means 
to  be  in  this  old  hill  town,  with  its  remains  of  Etrus- 
can occupation  and  pagan  Roman  and  Christian 
Roman  life,  has  possessed  my  mind  to-day.  You  will 
never  quite  understand  what  Mr.  Emerson  means  by 

206 


A   SUNDAY  IN   ASSIST 


the  oversoul  until  you  stroll  through  Italian  highways 
and  by-ways,  knowing  that  what  you  tread  upon  is 
only  common  earth  and  stone,  well  worn  by  many  feet, 
and  yet  among  the  many  feet  there  were  some  whose 
footsteps  seem  to  have  turned  the  common  earth  ways 
into  paths  that  lead  to  the  stars.  But  why  should  I 
try  to  explain  that  which  is  unexplainable,  and  to 
you,  who  have  read  more  books  about  Italy  than  I 
shall  ever  read,  and  yet,  here  I  triumph  over  you,  no 
books,  no,  nor  even  letters  of  mine,  can  make  you 
understand  the  compelling  charm  of  this 

"  Woman-country,  wooed  not  wed, 
Loved  all  the  more  by  earth's  male  lands." 

Some  day  you  must  come  here,  Allan,  and  see  and 
feel  it  all,  while  I,  off  in  some  prosaic  spot,  will  envy 
you  the  penetrating  joy  of  first  impressions,  the  grace 
of  a  day  that  can  never  quite  come  back  again. 

The  long  twilight  had  deepened,  the  shadows  of  the 
hills  had  lengthened  upon  the  wide-spread  plain,  w7hen 
we  turned  from  the  church  and  the  little  town  to 
retrace  our  steps  along  the  hillside  road.  Upon  the 
stillness  of  the  evening  air,  seldom  disturbed  except 
by  the  ringing  of  church-bells,  there  broke  forth  a 
sound  like  a  fog-horn,  and  a  large  red  object  suddenly 
appeared  upon  the  crest  of  the  hill.  There  followed 

207 


ITALIAN  DAYS   AND  WAYS 


a  whizz  and  a  whirr,  a  rush  through  the  air,  and  a 
flutter  of  blue  and  white  veils,  as  a  great  automobile 
sped  past  us  along  the  white  windings  of  the  road. 

"  Is  there  any  spot  too  sacred  for  the  intrusion  of 
an  automobile?  "  asked  Zelphine. 

' '  No, ' '  exclaimed  Miss  Horner,  ' '  not  even  the 
tomb  of  St.  Francis!  " 

"  And  yet,"  said  Angela,  her  eyes  wistfully  fol- 
lowing the  brilliant  auto  car  and  its  gay  company, 
' '  I  should  like  to  be  in  it,  this  moment,  speeding  along 
these  perfect  roads." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Miss  Morris,  "  everything 
depends  upon  the  point  of  view,  and  the  only  one  from 
which  an  automobile  is  entirely  unobjectionable  is 
when  you  are  in  it,  with  all  its  machinery  in  perfect 
order. ' ' 

HOTEL  GIOTTO,  ASSISI,  May  4th. 

You  will  be  surprised  to  learn  that  we  are  still  in 
Assisi.  Yesterday  afternoon,  on  our  way  to  the  sta- 
tion with  our  adopted  companions,  we  spent  an  hour 
at  St.  Mary  of  the  Angels  to  take  a  last  look  at  the 
Portiuncula,  the  rose-garden,  and  Delia  Kobbia's  fine 
terra-cotta,  and  then  repaired  to  a  little  tea-house  near 
by  for  a  parting  love-feast,  as  we  were  all  about  to 
start  for  different  places.  Miss  Morris  was  on  her 
way  to  Perugia,  Miss  Horner  was  bound  for  Florence, 

203 


A  SUNDAY  IN  ASSISI 


and  we  three  for  Siena.  In  the  midst  of  an  exchange 
of  cards,  addresses,  and  quite  sincere  hopes  of  meeting 
again,  Bertha  Linn  and  Mrs.  Robins  surprised  us  by 
walking  in,  having  driven  over  from  Perugia. 

You  will  laugh  at  me,  I  am  sure,  when  I  tell  you 
that  those  two  \vomen  persuaded  us,  three  in  number, 
with  our  luggage  at  the  station,  to  go  back  with  them 
to  Assisi  and  stay  over  another  day.  In  justice  to 
our  steadfastness  of  purpose  I  must  tell  you  that  we 
only  yielded  when  we  learned,  what  the  padrone  had 
not  been  clever  enough  to  tell  us,  that  on  the  following 
day  the  feast  of  the  Holy  Cross  was  to  be  celebrated, 
and  the  great  basilica  lighted  with  scores  of  wax 
candles. 

"We  are  truly  glad  that  we  yielded  to  Bertha's  per- 
suasions. Consistency  in  adhering  to  a  schedule  is 
not  always  a  jewel  in  one's  crown,  especially  when  one 
is  rewarded  by  such  a  view  of  the  frescoes  in  San 
Francesco  as  can  only  be  had  by  the  light  of  many 
long  candles  and  tapers. 

It  is  just  such  incidents  by  the  way,  such  turning 
back  and  retracing  of  steps  at  one's  pleasure,  that 
make  for  the  happiness  of  the  freeborn  American 
traveller  who  carries  her  luggage  with  her  and  is  not 
dominated  by  trunks — I  say  her  instead  of  him, 
because  most  of  the  travellers  we  meet  are  women; 
14  209 


ITALIAN  DAYS   AND  WAYS 


and,  as  if  to  give  weight  to  my  reasoning,  Bertha  adds, 
"  In  a  land  where  one  reckons  time  by  hundreds  of 
years,  what  difference  does  one  day  more  or  less 
make?  " 

"  Especially,"  said  Angela,  "  if  you  are  not  ham- 
pered by  a  hard  and  fast  schedule,  or  a  conscience 
about  disappointing  our  landlady  at  the  Pension  Ric- 
coli  in  Florence." 

"  She  will  not  be  disappointed,"  said  Mrs.  Robins, 
oracularly,  and  Mrs.  Robins,  having  travelled  much, 
knows  the  ways  of  Italian  landladies. 


210 


XIV 

THE    CITY    OF   FLOWERS 


LUKG'  ARNO  DELLE  GBAZIE, 

FLORENCE,  May  6th. 

Do  you  realize  that  your  letter  in  answer  to 
mine  of  March  18th  from  Rome  was  not  quite  within 
the  pact?  I  found  it  awaiting  me  at  Siena,  with  a 
number  of  others.  I  thought  my  explanation  quite 
clear  and  eminently  sane,  but  you  seem  to  have 
strangely  perverted  my  meaning;  then  you  revert  to 
an  earlier  letter  from  La  Cava,  and  are  pleased  to 
imagine  that  we  are  taking  risks  all  the  time  and  lead- 
ing a  reckless  life  generally.  I  shall  really  hesitate  to 
tell  you  again  of  any  of  our  adventures  such  as  that 
drive  home  from  PEestum,  which  I  merely  related  as 
an  amusing  incident.  There  is  no  danger  of  brigands 
in  these  days  and  we  did  not  "  need  a  protector," 
especially  as  kind  Providence  looked  after  us.  That 
drunken  driver  would  not  have  surrendered  his  reins 
to  you  or  to  any  one  except  the  padrone;  and  then 
"  all's  well  that  ends  well,"  and  we  returned  from 
our  excursion  with  nothing  worse  than  a  grievance. 

211 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 

I  was  so  vexed  with  you  for  two  whole  days  that 
I  wrote  you  not  one  line  from  Siena  or  Pisa.  Now 
your  indiscretion  is  partially  atoned  for  by  a  letter 
which  has  just  reached  me  here,  and  I  am  trying  to 
forgive  you  and  "  be  friends  again,"  as  we  used  to 
say  when  we  were  children.  But  the  charms  of  Siena 
are  already  so  eclipsed  by  those  of  Florence  that  it  is 
quite  impossible  for  me  to  give  you  an  atmospheric 
description  of  its  streets  and  churches,  above  all  of 
the  shining  cathedral,  rich  from  dome  to  pavement 
with  colored  marbles,  frescoes,  and  mosaics.  This  may 
be  no  loss  to  you,  who  are  doubtless  well  tired  of  my 
Italian  rhapsodies;  but  your  respite  is  only  tempo- 
rary, as  I  quite  missed  writing  you  that  letter.  I 
wanted  to  tell  you  that  the  campanile  at  Pisa  leans 
quite  as  much  as  the  little  Parian  model  on  your 
desk,  and  about  the  famous  Campo  Santo  with  its 
interesting  paintings,  and  many  other  things.  The 
habit  of  relieving  my  mind  of  the  burden  of  surplus 
impressions,  or  of  what  I  might  call  my  "  over- 
soul,"  has  become  second  nature.  Do  you  remem- 
ber, Allan,  the  man  in  Frank  Stockton 's  story  who,  on 
his  return  from  abroad,  found  his  friends  and 
acquaintances  so  much  interested  in  their  own  affairs 
that  he  engaged  a  young  man  at  twenty-five  cents  an 
hour  to  listen  to  his  traveller's  tales?  You  seem  to 

212 


A  STREET  IN  FLORENCE 


THE   CITY   OF   FLOWERS 


be  all  unwittingly  playing  the  role  of  that  youth,  less 
the  twenty-five  cents,  and  I,  alas!  shall  never  know 
whether  you  prove  yourself  more  worthy  than  that 
faithless  one,  who  fell  asleep  in  the  midst  of  the  most 
thrilling  adventures. 

I  must  explain  to  you  for  your  benefit,  when  you 
travel  this  way,  that  we  did  what  is  discouraged  by 
Baedeker  and  most  of  the  guide-books;  we  changed 
cars  at  Empoli  and  took  a  train  to  Pisa,  where  we 
spent  a  night  and  day.  The  usual  plan  is  to  go 
directly  from  Siena  to  Florence,  and  make  a  sep- 
arate day-trip  to  the  city  of  the  Leaning  Tower.  One 
of  Zelphine  's  pet  economies  is  to  save  the  retracing  of 
steps  or  railway  journeys  by  doing  all  that  we  can 
en  route.  In  this  case  I  think  her  plan  was  a  good 
one,  as  we  shall  never  be  willing  to  spend  one  whole 
beautiful  day  in  any  other  city,  no  matter  how  long 
we  may  tarry  in  Florence.  I  overheard  Zelphine,  this 
morning,  telling  Katharine  Clarke  that  she  intended 
to  stay  here  indefinitely  and  stifle  the  promptings  of 
conscience  with  regard  to  Venice  and  all  the  rest  of 
Italy,  adding,  in  her  earnest  way,  "  After  all,  Kath- 
arine, the  true  pleasure  of  travelling  is  to  settle  down 
in  one  place  and  let  its  charms  sink  into  your  mind." 

Katharine  was  so  much  amused  at  Zelphine 's  novel 
definition  of  the  joys  of  travel  that  she  repeated  it  to 

213 


ITALIAN  DAYS   AND  WAYS 


an  English  acquaintance,  who  exclaimed,  "  Really!  " 
with  a  delicious  rising  inflection,  "  would  not  that  be 
rather  unpractical?  "  Refreshingly  English,  was  it 
not  ?  The  truth  is,  we  are  all  well  tired  of  short  jour- 
neys, and  look  forward  with  pleasure  to  a  whole  month 
of  Zelphine's  kind  of  travelling,  living  in  Florence 
and  making  half-day  trips  to  Fiesole,  La  Certosa,  and 
some  of  the  lovely  villas  on  the  hillsides  near  by. 

We  reached  Florence  last  night  so  late  that  the  long 
twilight  had  quite  faded,  and  darkness  veiled  the 
charms  of  this  most  beautiful  city.  As  we  drove  along 
the  Lung'  Arno,  its  lights  revealed  glimpses  here  and 
there  of  the  shining  river  and  picturesque  bridges, 
with  a  line  of  dark  mountains  rising  beyond  and  above 
them.  There  is  something  fascinating  and  stimulating 
to  the  imagination  in  such  a  first  view  of  a  strange 
city,  especially  when,  as  in  this  instance,  she  discovers 
fresh  beauties  when  she  lifts  her  veil  to  the  morning 
light. 

We  were  not  able  to  get  into  the  delightful  pension 
that  Katharine  Clarke  told  us  of.  Madame  had  not 
received  my  note  from  Assisi  advising  her  that  we 
would  be  two  days  later  than  our  appointment,  and 
had  promptly  rented  our  rooms,  believing,  like  all 
Italian  landladies,  in  the  proverbial  "  bird  in  the 
hand."  "  Never  mind,"  said  Zelphine,  as  we  turned 

214 


THE   CITY   OF   FLOWERS 


sadly  away,  "  what  is  any  pension,  even  the  Pension 
Riecoli,  whose  feasts  are  said  to  rival  those  of  Lucul- 
lus,  compared  with  that  incomparable  last  day  in 
Assisi  with  St.  Francis  or  that  other  red-letter  day 
in  the  cathedral  at  Siena?  " 

' '  And  then, ' '  said  Angela, ' '  the  Pension  Riecoli  is  a 
paradise  reached  by  many  purgatorial  stairs. ' ' 

Being  both  tired  and  hungry  by  this  time,  we  con- 
sulted our  note-books,  and  directed  our  vetturino  to 
the  nearest  pension.  An  indifferent  hostel  it  proved 
to  be,  with  the  one  charm  of  being  directly  on  the 
Arno.  Our  windows  opened  on  the  river,  and  we  were 
lulled  to  sleep  by  the  music  of  its  rushing  waters. 
These  rivers,  fed  by  springs  from  neighboring  hills, 
are  widely  different  from  the  sluggish  streams  of  the 
plain;  the  spirits  of  Undine  and  her  kind  seem  to 
inhabit  them  and  sing  their  lullabies  in  storm  and 
calm.  Zelphine  evidently  had  the  same  thought,  as 
she  told  me  that  she  had  been  dreaming  all  night  of 
Undine  and  Sir  Huldebrand,  and  that  it  would  not 
have  surprised  her  to  have  the  lovely  sprite  appear 
at  her  window  and  dash  water  in  her  face.  Instead 
she  awoke  to  find  Angela  standing  by  our  window,  in 
the  freshest  of  pink  and  white  morning-gowns,  the 
warm  sun  lighting  up  every  thread  of  her  blonde 
hair  to  pure  gold.  She  begged  us  to  come  to  the  win- 

215 


ITALIAN    DAYS   AND  WAYS 

dow  and  look  out.  The  Florence  of  the  left  side  of 
the  Arno,  the  Florence  of  "  Romola  "  and  Mrs. 
Browning,  lay  before  us,  with  its  churches  and  palaces, 
connected  with  the  Lung'  Arno  delle  Grazie  by  the 
oldest  bridge  in  the  city,  the  Ponte  alle  Grazie.  Off 
to  the  south  are  the  heights  of  San  Miniato,  and  still 
further  the  commanding  Fortezza  di  Belvedere,  and 
beyond,  hill  upon  hill  of  blue  velvet  spanned  to-day 
by  a  sapphire  sky.  Behind  us  are  the  Duomo,  Santa 
Croce,  San  Marco,  and  a  whole  world  of  architectural 
wonder  and  entrancing  interest,  the  old  streets 
through  which  Dante,  Michael  Angelo,  and  Eaphael 
walked  and  the  churches  that  resounded  to  the  voice 
of  Savonarola. 

PENSION  C.,  VIA  SOLFERIXO, 

Saturday  Evening. 

Among  surroundings  of  so  much  interest  it  seemed 
almost  a  desecration  to  devote  an  hour  to  a  search  for 
a  pension,  and  yet  even  this  practical  business  was 
illuminated  by  glimpses  of  beauty  by  the  way.  We 
passed  through  the  Loggia  dei  Lanzi,  with  its  many 
statues,  where  Cosimo's  German  lancers  were  once 
quartered,  across  the  Piazza  della  Signoria  and  by  the 
Strozzi  Palace.  This  middle-age  castle,  with  its  rough- 
hewn  stone  walls  unbroken  by  windows  except  on  the 

216 


THE   CITY   OF   FLOWERS 


upper  floors,  must  have  proved  an  impregnable  fort- 
ress in  days  when  war  was  the  chief  occupation  of  the 
Florentines  and  a  man's  house  was  primarily  and 
emphatically  his  stronghold.  Although  the  Palazzo 
Strozzi  was  built  by  a  merchant,  its  exterior  is  deco- 
rated by  the  handsome  iron  fanali  which  were  used 
only  by  the  most  distinguished  citizens,  and  here  are 
the  rings  to  which  the  party  standards  were  once 
attached.  We  passed  the  Palazzo  Strozzi  on  our  wan- 
dering way  to  Thomas  Cook's  office,  which  is  on  the 
same  street,  the  Via  Tornabuoni,  with  its  alluring 
cafes,  confectioners',  modistes',  and  bric-a-brac  shops. 
The  massive  walls  and  huge  bulk  of  the  old  palace 
form  a  picturesque  background  for  the  bright,  varied 
modern  life  and  tourists '  life  of  the  Florence  of  to-day. 
Katharine  told  us  of  an  excellent  pension  on  the 
Via  Solferino  near  the  Cascine,  which  she  feared 
would  be  full,  like  every  other  place  that  we  had 
looked  at,  as  all  America  seems  to  have  come  up  here 
from  the  Eastertide  in  Rome  to  spend  May  in  Flor- 
ence. We  meet  more  acquaintances  on  the  Via  Torna- 
buoni and  under  the  arcades  of  the  Piazza  Vittorio 
Emanuele  than  on  Fifth  Avenue,  and  almost  as  many 
as  on  Rittenhouse  Square.  Zelphine  says  that  it  would 
be  pleasant  to  meet  some  Florentines  once  in  a  while, 
' '  or  even  some  Romans, ' '  suggested  Angela. 

217 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


"  Romans  never  travel,"  replied  Zelphine,  in  her 
most  encyclopaedic  tone;  "  like  Parisians,  their  own 
surroundings  satisfy  them  entirely." 

' '  Never  travel !  How  strange,  how  dull !  ' '  ex- 
claimed Angela,  shaking  her  head,  incredulously. 
Was  she  thinking  of  Ludovico  or  of  the  Marquis  de  B., 
I  wondered,  this  apparently  frank  but  absolutely 
inscrutable  Angela?  She  had  a  letter  handed  her  at 
Cook's  office  this  morning,  with  a  Roman  postmark, 
which  she  put  in  her  pocket  without  a  word  or  a  sign 
of  interest.  It  was  not  in  Ludovico 's  handwriting,  I 
know ;  whose  then  ?  Do  I  seem  to  be  watching  straws  to 
find  out  which  way  the  wind  blows  ?  You  must  remem- 
ber, Allan,  that  I  am  the  appointed  chaperon  of  this 
party,  and  that  Angela's  father,  like  the  "  Father  of 
his  Country,"  has  a  great  objection  to  entangling 
foreign  alliances.  Indeed,  my  task  is  no  light  one, 
as  there  are  tunes  when  Zelphine  needs  a  chaperon 
quite  as  much  as  Angela ;  her  beaux  yeux  draw  many 
admiring  glances  in  our  direction.  But  pray  do  not 
whisper  this  above  your  breath,  as  Zelphine  is  abso- 
lutely unconscious  of  the  admiration  that  she  excites, 
and  would  accuse  me  of  gross  exaggeration,  and  then 
a  certain  widower  of  our  acquaintance  might  become 
alarmed  and  feel  it  his  duty  to  join  us  "  as  a  pro- 
tector," which  would  certainly  interfere  with  Ange- 

218 


THE   CITY   OF   FLOWERS 


la's  pleasure  and  mine,  however  it  might  affect  Zel- 
phine  's  happiness. 

To  return  to  our  quest,  we  found  the  Pension  C. 
crowded,  as  Katharine  had  feared,  but  Madame 
assured  us  that  she  would  have  rooms  for  us  in  a  few 
days,  if  we  would  only  be  content  with  lodgings  in 
the  dependance  for  the  present.  The  rooms  shown  us 
were  altogether  captivating,  with  their  long  windows 
and  balconies  overlooking  a  garden  full  of  roses. 
When  Zelphine  learned  that  in  addition  to  their  other 
attractions  these  rooms  were  presided  over  by  a  maid 
named  Assunta,  wild  horses,  buffaloes,  or  even  the 
more  probable  menace  of  mice  would  not  have  drawn 
her  from  the  Pension  C.  "  Think  of  it,  Margaret!  " 
she  exclaimed,  "  to  sit  on  a  balcony  overhanging  a 
rose-garden,  and  have  our  coffee  and  rolls  brought  to 
us  by  Assunta!  And  then,"  added  Zelphine,  in  her 
most  persuasive  tone,  "  she  seems  to  understand  my 
French,  although  she  speaks  nothing  but  Italian!  " 
Although  Katharine  laughed  heartily  at  Zelphine 's 
argument,  and  said  that  it  reminded  her  of  a  sign  in 
one  of  the  shops  on  the  Via  Tornabuoni,  "  French 
spoken  and  English  understood,"  I  felt  this  to  be  an 
important  consideration  and  one  that  would  affect 
our  comfort  even  more  materially  than  the  balcony, 
the  rose-garden,  or  the  pleasing  name  of  our  femme 

219 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


de  cliambre,  and  after  some  conversation  with  Madame 
we  concluded  to  await  her  pleasure.  We  are  now 
lodged  in  the  dependance,  a  dismal  apartment-house 
on  the  Via  Montebello,  connected  with  the  pension  by 
a  tunnel-like  gallery.  Here  we  and  our  belongings 
hang  between  heaven  and  earth  until  our  promised 
rooms  in  the  main  house  are  vacant — to-morrow,  or 
the  next  day,  or  the  next;  nothing  is  quite  certain 
here,  and  dates  do  not  seem  to  be  reckoned  with  or 
upon. 

After  our  first  dinner  at  the  Pension  C.  Angela 
showed  her  satisfaction  with  her  new  surroundings 
by  exclaiming,  "  I  am  glad  that  you  two  romantic 
creatures  have  decided  upon  a  place  where  the  food 
is  so  good,  as  we  cannot  be  expected  to  live  on  antiqui- 
ties for  many  days."  Angela  is  quite  right:  we  are 
fed  upon  strawberries,  sugar,  and  cream,  while  suc- 
culent asparagus,  and  peas  as  sweet  as  those  from 
your  garden  at  Woodford,  have  replaced  the  arti- 
chokes and  fennel,  of  which  we  had  grown  a  bit  tired. 
I  saw  Angela  tremble  this  evening  when  the  dish  of 
green  peas  was  offered  to  her  right-hand  neighbor  first, 
according  to  the  undeviating  blindfold  justice  of 
table  d'hote  rules;  for  although  Madame  provides 
most  liberally  for  her  guests,  this  woman  would  create 
famine  in  a  land  of  plenty.  Our  youngest  made  a 

220 


THE   CITY   OF   FLOWERS 


grimace  over  the  small  portion  left  for  her  on  the 
platter,  and  then  with  resolute  cheerfulness  essayed 
to  open  a  conversation  with  her  neighbor,  remarking 
that  we  had  spent  a  delightful  morning  at  the  Annun- 
ziata,  to  which  the  lady,  whose  thoughts  evidently 
never  rise  above  her  plate,  asked,  naively,  "  Why, 
what's  going  on  there?  " 

In  view  of  all  that  has  "  gone  on  "  at  the  Annun- 
ziata,  especially  in  art,  the  masterpieces  of  Andrea  del 
Sarto  and  Ghirlandajo  and  the  lovely  Delia  Robbias, 
we  were  all  reduced  to  silence. 

Although  there  are  some  charming  people  at  the 
pension,  we  are  not  particularly  well  placed  at  the 
table  d'hote.  Zelphine  is  not  more  fortunate  in  con- 
versation than  Angela,  as  her  neighbor  is  an  Italian 
gentleman  who,  although  charmingly  polite,  is  deaf 
and  dumb  in  every  language  save  his  own.  Angela 
and  I  have  concluded  that  this  Signer  A.  is  preter- 
naturally  dull,  as  Zelphine  can  say  enough  with  her 
eyes  to  make  most  men  understand ;  beside  which  her 
adroitly  pronounced  and  cleverly  emphasized  French 
usually  appeals  to  the  intelligent  Italian  imagination. 
Occasionally  she  touches  the  roses  on  the  table,  and 
says  ' '  Bella, ' '  when  there  follows  a  rapid  flow  of  con- 
versation on  the  part  of  Signor  A.,  through  which 
Zelphine  smiles  sweetly.  She  scored  quite  a  point  this 

221 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 

evening  when  Madame  made  her  appearance,  after 
an  indisposition  of  a  couple  of  days,  and  Zelphine 
bowed  in  recognition  of  the  return  of  our  presiding 
genius,  and,  turning  to  her  neighbor,  said  "  Benia." 
' '  Benia  ' '  may  not  be  the  very  best  Italian  equivalent 
for  "  better,"  but  it  evidently  conveyed  Zelphine 's 
idea  to  Signor  A.,  who  nodded  his  head  in  approval 
and  beamed  upon  her  like  a  sunburst.  He  has  been 
her  devoted  slave  ever  since,  passing  everything  at 
his  end  of  the  table  to  her,  evidently  quite  incapable 
of  helping  himself  first,  and  urging  wine  upon  her 
until  I  tremble  for  her  sobriety.  Zelphine  is  of  a 
yielding  nature  up  to  a  certain  point,  of  course, 
beyond  which  she  is  a  rock  of  steadfastness,  as  Angela 
and  I  have  learned  in  the  course  of  our  travels 
together.  We  trust  that  she  may  discover  the  rocky 
side  of  her  character  if  Signor  A.  fills  up  her  glass  too 
often,  or  makes  her  an  offer  of  his  heart,  his  hand,  and 
his  fortune.  This  latter  we  are  disposed  to  think  is 
inconsiderable,  as  one  of  his  chief  sources  of  revenue 
is,  as  we  have  incidentally  gathered,  the  keeping  of 
Madame 's  books. 

Angela  looks  discontentedly  at  her  own  insatiable 
neighbor  and  then  at  Zelphine,  so  tenderly  cared  for 
by  hers,  and  remarks  in  the  crude  slang  of  the  day 
that ' '  Zelphine  has  a  soft  thing  of  it,  all  right !  ' ' 

222 


THE   CITY   OF   FLOWERS 


A  blooming  widow  opposite,  with  a  daughter  of 
twelve  at  her  side,  wastes  the  sweetness  of  her  smiles 
upon  the  unrequiting  feminine  company  of  the  pen- 
sion. The  only  available  man,  available,  I  mean,  for 
excursions  and  strolls  in  the  Cascine,  left  this  morn- 
ing for  Venice,  wearing  a  bright  red  necktie  which  the 
lady  has  been  knitting  for  days  while  he  sat  by  her 
side  in  the  rose-garden.  Angela  thought  it  very  unbe- 
coming, because  it  did  not  match  his  hair  exactly, 
scarlet  not  being  the  color  one  would  choose  for  a  red- 
haired  man,  but  then  our  youngest  is  overcritical  in 
the  matter  of  color. 

Further  down  the  table  d'hote  are  several  widows 
with  daughters,  one,  two,  or  three.  Zelphine  and  I 
have  been  wondering  when  the  great  mortality  among 
American  men  occurred,  as  most  of  the  women  whom 
we  meet  are  too  young  to  be  relicts  of  the  Civil  War. 
The  widow  en  voyage  with  grown  daughters  is  the  rule. 
Some  few  wives  are  here  who  have  husbands  at  home ; 
the  exception  is  when  paterfamilias  accompanies  the 
party,  and  when  he  does,  I  must  frankly  admit  that  he 
looks  excessively  bored,  especially  in  picture-galleries. 

Sunday,  May  9th. 

Katharine  came  in  this  morning,  bright  and  early, 
with  her  hands  full  of  roses  and  her  head  full  of  plans. 

223 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 

She  had  been  modelling  steadily  for  ten  days,  and, 
having  reached  a  convenient  stopping-place,  an- 
nounced her  intention  of  taking  a  vacation  of  three 
days,  which  she  would  be  glad  to  devote  to  us  and  our 
sight-seeing.  "Would  it  please  us  to  go  to  Fiesole  for 
the  day  or  to  Vallombrosa  ?  Zelphine  says  that  we 
must  see  Vallombrosa  if  we  would  know  something 
of  the  beauties  of  Paradise  in  advance.  Milton  is 
said  to  have  drawn  his  description  of  the  Garden  of 
Eden  from  the  lovely  slopes  of  the  Pratomagno.  You, 
ardent  lover  of  the  English  classics,  may  recall  a  pass- 
age in  the  first  book  of  "  Paradise  Lost,"  in  which 
Milton  speaks  of  Fiesole  and  Valdarno,  and  of 

"  Vallombrosa,  where  the  Etrurian  shades 
High  overarch'd  embower." 

As  Katharine  is  a  delightful  cicerone,  intelligent 
and  appreciative,  her  enthusiasm  well  balanced  by 
common  sense,  we  were  charmed  by  the  prospect  of 
three  days  in  her  good  company,  and  when  she  asked 
us  what  we  would  do  to-day,  I  was  about  to  say, 
properly  and  politely,  that  we  would  go  wherever  it 
would  please  her  to  take  us ;  but  Zelphine  interposed, 
and  solemnly  protested  that  it  would  be  quite  impos- 
sible for  her  to  spend  another  day  in  Florence  with- 
out visiting  the  grave  of  Mrs.  Browning.  Being  of  a 

224 


THE   CITY   OF   FLOWERS 


cheerful  temper  and  not  given  to  haunting  graveyards, 
Katharine  seemed  to  have  a  rather  vague  idea  of  the 
location  of  the  Protestant  Cemetery,  but  she  readily 
consented  to  Zelphine's  request,  and  by  dint  of  con- 
siderable questioning  we  found  it.  Not  an  ideal 
Campo  Santo  is  this,  like  that  at  Rome,  where  tall 
cypresses  shut  it  in  from  the  outside  world,  and  where 
the  vast  pyramidal  Tomb  of  Caius  Cestius  overshad- 
ows it  grandly.  Just  outside  the  Porta  Pinti  is  this 
Protestant  burial-ground  of  Florence.  The  old  walls 
that  once  framed  it  in  have  been  removed,  and  it 
now  stands  in  the  midst  of  dusty  highways  where 
noisy  trams  pass  to  and  fro  with  their  freight  of  eager- 
eyed  tourists.  Once  inside  the  enclosure,  we  found 
trees  and  shrubbery,  and  roses  blooming  everywhere. 
Katharine  and  Angela  stood  under  a  tree  to  rest 
beneath  its  grateful  shade,  while  Zelphine  walked  on 
and  on  as  if  drawn  by  a  magnet,  I  following  her,  until 
we  stood  before  a  square  marble  sarcophagus,  simple 
and  dignified,  with  the  initials  E.  B.  B.  on  one  side 
and  the  date  June  29,  1861.  A  cedar-tree  stands 
guard  by  the  poet's  grave,  one  branch  leaning  over  it 
protectingly,  roses  climb  all  about  it,  and  as  we  stood 
there,  silent  and  reverent,  a  bird  sang  from  one  of  the 
branches  overhead,  and,  like  Browning's  "  wise 
thrush, ' '  he  sang  his  song 
15  225 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


"  twice  over, 

Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 
The  first  fine  careless  rapture ! " 

Standing  by  the  grave  of  the  English  poetess  in  the 
beauty  of  a  May  day,  with  the  blue  sky  above  it,  the 
air  filled  with  the  fragrance  of  flowers  and  the  songs 
of  birds,  it  seemed  to  us  that  they  were  wise  who 
decided  that  Elizabeth  Browning's  tomb  should 
be  here,  in  this  Italy  that  she  loved,  and  among  the 
Florentines  who  adored  her,  rather  than  in  the  vast 
gloom  of  the  abbey  where  her  husband  lies  and  where 
she  is  by  right  entitled  to  rest  among  the  great  of 
England. 

Two  other  English  poets  sleep  in  this  cemetery, 
Arthur  Hugh  Clough  and  Walter  Savage  Landor. 
Landor  died  in  Florence  in  a  house  on  the  Via  Nun- 
ziatina,  in  1864.  As  we  stood  by  his  grave,  Zelphine 
softly  murmured  Swinburne's  lovely  lines  to  his 
brother  poet : 

"  So  shall  thy  lovers,  come  from  far, 

Mix    with    thy    name, 
As  morning-star  with  evening-star, 
His   faultless   fame." 

This  afternoon,  returning  from  Katharine's  studio, 
which  is  beyond  the  Porta  Romana,  as  we  passed  the 

226 


THE   CITY   OF   FLOWERS 


vast  monotonous  facade  of  Palazzo  Pitti  and  entered 
the  Via  Maggio,  we  were  attracted  by  a  tall  gray  house 
with  a  white  tablet  above  its  first-floor  windows. 
' '  The  Casa  Guidi !  ' '  exclaimed  Zelphine,  reading  the 
words  in  which  the  Florentines  recorded  their  love 
and  gratitude  to  the  woman  poet  who  had  by  her 
golden  ring  of  verse  linked  Italy  to  England.  The 
well-known  lines  by  the  poet  Tommaseo  are  inscribed 
in  letters  of  gold  upon  the  marble  tablet,  in  Italian 
of  course,  but  I  am  quite  sure  that  Zelphine  could 
read  an  inscription  to  the  Brownings  in  Hindustani. 
After  lingering  long  before  the  windows  of  the  primo 
piano,  which  will  always  be  associated  with  the  Brown- 
ings, we  walked  around  the  corner  to  the  Piazza  Santa 
Felicita  and  looked  up  at  the  terrace  where  Mrs. 
Browning  spent  so  many  days,  and  up  and  down 
which  she  described  her  husband  as  walking  with  the 
third  Browning  in  his  arms. 

I  must  frankly  confess  that  we  were  disappointed 
in  the  terrace,  as  we  had  expected  to  see  one  of  the 
charming  garden  terraces,  adorned  wTith  blooming 
plants  and  even  trees,  in  which  the  Italians  delight  to 
find  rest  and  seclusion  above  the  noise  and  dirt  of  the 
street;  instead  we  saw  only  a  balcony  overhanging 
the  piazza,  with  a  few  straggling  plants  in  pots.  So 
small  is  this  balcony  that  Mr.  Browning 's  goodly  pro- 

227 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 

portions  must  have  filled  all  the  available  space,  even 
if  it  was  quite  large  enough  for  the  fairy-like  lady 
who  sat  there  through  long  summer  days.  Do  you 
remember  that  she  wrote  to  Miss  Mitford  that  she 
was  so  happy  despite  the  intense  heat  that  she  could 
quite  comprehend  the  possibility  of  St.  Lawrence's 
ecstasies  on  a  gridiron?  In  another  letter  Mrs. 
Browning  wrote,  "  Here  we  can  step  out  of  the  win- 
dow on  a  sort  of  balcony  terrace  which  is  quite  private, 
and  swims  over  with  moonlight  in  the  evenings,  and 
as  we  live  upon  watermelons,  iced  water,  and  figs,  and 
all  manner  of  fruit,  we  bear  the  heat  with  angelic 
patience  and  felicity  which  are  really  edifying." 

It  is  not  strange  that,  with  new  happiness  and 
renewed  health,  everything  in  Florence  was  glorified 
to  Mrs.  Browning,  and  that  the  Casa  Guidi  apart- 
ment, with  its  windows  looking  out  upon  the  Pitti 
Palace  on  one  side  and  on  the  other  ' '  toward  the  gray 
wall  of  a  church,  called  San  Felice,  for  good  omen," 
seemed  a  bit  of  Paradise. 

Near  the  Casa  Guidi  are  several  classic  spots.  On 
the  right  of  the  Via  Maggio  at  the  corner  of  the  Via 
Marsili  is  the  house  where  Bernardo  Buontalenti  lived 
when  the  great  Tasso  came  from  Ferrara  to  embrace 
him  and  thank  him  for  the  beautiful  scenery  painted 
by  him  which  had  contributed  so  much  to  the  success 

228 


THE   CITY   OF  FLOWERS 


of  his  "  Aminta."  The  story  runs,  as  told  by  Baldi- 
nucci,  that  after  thanking  Buontalenti  and  kissing 
him  on  the  neck  and  forehead  Tasso  mounted  his  horse 
and  rode  away,  leaving  the  painter  as  amazed  as  if 
he  had  beheld  a  vision  from  the  world  of  spirits. 

A  little  way  beyond  on  the  same  street  is  the  house 
of  Bianca  Capello,  from  whose  windows  her  delicate, 
fascinating  face  looked  forth  for  men's  undoing. 
Whether  or  not  Bianca  looked  out  from  these  win- 
dows ' '  to  see  the  Duke  go  by, ' '  as  Mrs.  Browning  says, 
it  was  from  her  balcony  here  that  she  attracted  the 
admiration  of  her  first  husband,  Pietro  Bonaventuri, 
with  whom  she  eloped,  and  near  this  house  he  was 
murdered  to  give  place  to  a  princely  suitor.  The  story 
of  Bianca 's  marriage  with  the  Grand  Duke  Francesco, 
of  which  we  found  accounts  in  several  books  at  the  all- 
embracing  Vieusseux's,  reads  like  a  chapter  of  the 
' '  Arabian  Nights. ' '  Never,  surely,  were  wrong-doing 
and  shame  so  gilded  and  glorified! — gilded  literally, 
as  the  bodies  of  men  and  women  were  painted  with 
gold  that  they  might  represent  the  deities  of  Olympus 
in  the  nuptial  procession  of  Bianca,  whose  own  car 
was  drawn  by  real  lions,  while  to  other  chariots  were 
harnessed  horses  and  buffaloes  dressed  in  the  skins 
of  wild  animals  to  represent  griffins,  unicorns,  and 
elephants. 

229 


ITALIAN  DAYS   AND  WAYS 


At  the  corner  of  the  Via  Toscanella  an  old  wall 
marks  the  site  of  "  the  darksome,  sad,  and  silent 
house  ' '  where  Boccaccio  lived  and  wrote. 

As  we  regained  the  Piazza  Pitti  and  turned  for  one 
more  look  at  the  Casa  Guidi  windows,  Angela  was 
indiscreet  enough  to  say  what  I  had  been  thinking  all 
the  time :  ' '  After  all,  it  does  not  look  much  like  a 
palace,  although  Mrs.  Browning  dated  some  of  her 
letters  from  the  Palazzo  Guidi.  It's  just  like  an  ordi- 
nary apartment-house."  Zelphine  vouchsafed  no 
word  in  reply  to  this  irreverent  criticism,  but  with  a 
withering  glance  at  Angela  strode  before  us  along  the 
Via  Guicciardini  and  across  the  Ponte  Vecchio,  her 
head  in  the  air  and  her  thoughts  doubtless  "  com- 
mencing with  the  skies,"  which  were  of  Italy's  bluest 
this  evening.  The  emotions  of  the  day  had  evidently 
been  quite  too  much  for  Zelphine.  She  left  us 
abruptly  after  dinner,  and  shut  herself  up  in  her  own 
room,  "  to  think  great  thoughts,"  Angela  said,  while 
we  more  practical  travellers  turned  to  our  Hare  and 
our  Baedeker  to  plan  out  a  campaign  for  to-morrow. 

I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  we  went  across  the  river 
this  afternoon  to  the  little  American  Church  on  the 
Piazza  del  Carmine,  where  there  was  a  short  service, 
after  which  we  had  quite  enough  daylight  to  study 
Masaccio's  interesting  frescoes  in  the  Cappella  Bran- 

230 


THE   CITY   OF   FLOWERS 


cacci  of  the  Church  of  the  Carmine  near  by.  There 
is  something  intensely  realistic  and  hopelessly  sad  in 
Masaccio's  Expulsion  from  Paradise.  Here  despair 
and  anguish  are  portrayed  in  every  feature  and  line ; 
our  first  parents  really  suffer,  as  Masaccio  represents 
them  being  driven  by  an  avenging  angel  from  the 
Paradise  in  which,  according  to  Filippino  Lippi's 
panel  near  by,  they  seem  to  have  lived  in  a  placid  and 
rather  dull  content  before  the  Fall. 

Angela  reminds  me  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour  and 
of  our  early  start  for  Vallombrosa  to-morrow,  whither 
we  have  elected  to  spend  two  of  Katharine 's  holidays, 
thus  breaking  through  our  resolve  at  the  very  start, 
you  see,  and  leaving  Florence  for  two  whole  days ;  but 
as  you  are  already  familiar  with  my  sentiments  on  the 
subject  of  changes  of  plans,  I  offer  no  apology,  espe- 
cially as  Katharine  says  that  one  really  cannot  do 
justice  to  Vallombrosa  in  a  hurried  day's  journey. 


231 


XV 

AN  EARTHLY   PARADISE 


HOTEL  CROCE  DI  SAVOIA, 

VALLOMBROSA,  May  10th. 

THE  day  has  been  spent  in  driving,  walking,  and 
climbing  hills,  yet  we  seem  to  feel  no  fatigue,  so  invig- 
orating is  this  air,  ' '  mountain  air,  sheathed  in  Italian 
sunshine, ' '  as  Mrs.  Browning  aptly  described  it.  Val- 
lombrosa  is  three  thousand  feet  above  Florence — small 
wonder  that  we  have  been  ascending  skyward  since 
we  drove  away  from  Pelago  this  morning ! 

Zelphine's  pet  project  was  to  stop  over  night  at  the 
hermitage  of  II  Paradisino,  which  is  on  a  rock  more 
than  two  hundred  feet  above  the  old  monastery  of 
Vallombrosa ;  but  here  again  Katharine's  common 
sense  stood  us  in  good  stead.  The  inn  at  II  Paradisino 
is,  she  says,  wretchedly  kept,  so  we  have  adopted  her 
plan  and  are  spending  the  night  here  in  comfort.  We 
climbed  up  to  the  hermitage  and  chapel  this  evening 
for  the  sunset  view  of  the  valley  of  the  Arno,  in  which 
Florence  lies.  In  the  far  distance  we  could  see  the 

strangely  indented  line  of  the  mountains  of  Carrara, 

232 


AN   EARTHLY   PARADISE 


with  Mount  Cimone,  and  other  remote  peaks  of  the 
Apennines. 

Zelphine  found  a  copy  of  Mrs.  Browning's  letters 
cliez  Vieusseux,  that  good  friend  of  all  English-speak- 
ing travellers.  We  have  brought  the  first  volume  with 
us,  and  are  thus  enjoying,  in  Mrs.  Browning's  good 
company,  the  charms  of  this  region  which  she  described 
so  vividly. 

Although  we  did  not  set  out  from  Pelago  at  four  in 
the  morning,  nor  journey  in  a  sledge  drawn  by  white 
oxen,  but  in  a  carriage,  even  in  this  less  picturesque 
conveyance  we  felt  that  we  were  ascending  the  heights 
of  Paradise,  and  were  awed  into  silence  by  the  rugged 
grandeur  of  the  scenery,  the  hills  with  their  heads 
among  the  clouds,  the  dense  pine  forests  and  the  beech 
and  chestnut  woods  hanging  from  the  mountain  sides. 
We  were  at  times  reminded  of  Switzerland,  although 
some  of  our  fellow-travellers  found  a  stronger  likeness 
to  Norway  in  the  black  ravines,  gurgling  waters,  and 
mountain  torrents ;  but  alas  and  alas !  as  we  drew 
near  the  summit,  instead  of  Milton 's 

"  Shade  above  shade,  a  woody  theatre 
Of  stateliest  view," 

we  found  that  most  of  the  fine  trees  which  once 
adorned  the  ascent  had  been  ruthlessly  destroyed. 

233 


ITALIAN  DAYS   AND  WAYS 

They  tell  us  that  a  public-spirited  and  beauty-loving 
Englishman  offered  to  pay  a  fair  price  for  some  of  the 
goodliest  trees  if  they  might  only  be  left  standing  in 
their  places ;  but  the  offer  was  refused,  and  the  vandal- 
ism continues.  How  you  will  mourn  these  noble  trees 
when  you  come  here ! — feeling,  as  you  do,  that  the 
wanton  destruction  of  trees  is  a  crime  near  to  that  of 
homicide  in  the  category  of  sins.  Yet,  in  the  midst 
of  this  wholesale  destruction,  a  school  has  been  estab- 
lished for  the  training  of  foresters.  It  is  to  be  hoped 
that  this  Foresteria,  which  occupies  the  old  monastery 
buildings,  may  disseminate  so  much  light  that  in  the 
future  trees  may  be  preserved  as  well  as  planted.  We 
were  told  that  thousands  of  trees  had  been  planted 
within  a  short  time. 

With  the  suppression  of  the  monastery  many  of 
the  characteristic  features  of  Vallombrosa  have  disap- 
peared, and  so  we  may  not  see  the  place  as  the  Brown- 
ings saw  it  when  they  came  here  in  the  summer  of 
1847.  Do  you  remember  how  they  were  ingloriously 
expelled  from  the  monastery7  at  the  end  of  five  days, 
as  Mrs.  Browning  says,  "by  a  little  holy  abbot  with 
a  red  face,  who  was  given  to  sanctity  and  had  set  his 
face  against  women  "?  We  could  well  understand 
what  it  would  have  been  to  those  lovers  of  nature  to 
spend  two  months,  as  they  had  planned,  in  the  midst 

234 


AN   EARTHLY   PARADISE 


of  the  majestic  beauty  of  this  mountain  paradise.  We 
long  inexpressibly  to  stay  a  week  here  and  then  take 
a  couple  of  days  for  La  Verna,  where  again  one  comes 
upon  footprints  of  St.  Francis  and  his  brothers,  but 
we  all  learned  from  our  school  copybooks  that  "  time 
and  tide  wait  for  no  man, ' '  and  we  have  promised  to 
be  in  Florence  to-morrow  night  to  meet  Bertha  and 
Mrs.  Robins,  who  are  to  join  us  in  a  trip  to  the 
Certosa  on  the  following  day.  Zelphine  and  I  make 
solemn  vows,  as  we  have  done  in  many  other  entran- 
cing spots,  that  we  will  return  to  Vallombrosa  some 
day  and  stay  as  long  as  we  wish.  These  resolves  com- 
fort us,  and  yet — and  yet — do  we  ever  have  ' '  the  time 
and  the  place  and  the  loved  one  all  together,"  espe- 
cially the  time  ?  To-morrow  we  shall  be  up  betimes  to 
enjoy  the  early  morning  view  from  II  Paradisino,  with 
the  clouds  rolling  away  beneath  our  feet  to  show  us 
once  again  the  dome  of  our  beloved  Santa  Maria  del 
Fiore  above  the  shoulder  of  a  hill,  a  sight  which  it  is 
worth  while  climbing  mountains  to  see,  and  if  the  day 
is  fine,  and  here  days  usually  are  fine,  we  may  even 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  glistening  sea  beyond  Florence 
and  its  hills. 

PENSION  C.,  FLORENCE,  May  12th. 
We  found  Ludovico's  cards  on  our  return  from 
Vallombrosa.     He  had  come  quite  unexpectedly  on 

235 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


military  business,  so  he  says,  for  of  course  he  returned 
later  in  the  evening  and  we  had  a  long  talk  with  him. 
He  proposes  to  act  as  our  guide  here,  as  in  the  old 
Koman  days,  and  is  planning  a  number  of  delightful 
excursions  for  us.  As  the  sun  is  very  hot  now  we  are 
glad  to  spend  our  mornings  in  the  galleries  and 
churches,  which  are  delightfully  cool. 

This  morning,  to  our  surprise,  and  also,  I  think,  to 
Ludovico's,  the  Marquis  de  B.  appeared.  He  also  has 
come  upon  military  business,  being  in  the  army,  like 
most  young  Italians  of  good  family.  Indeed,  as  Ludo- 
vico  ingenuously  remarked,  the  other  day,  "  There  is 
nothing  else  for  us  to  do,  unless  we  go  into  the  Church 
or  marry  an  American  heiress ;  and  neither  of  these, ' ' 
with  perfect  sang-froid  and  not  a  trace  of  embarrass- 
ment, "  is  to  my  taste/' 

Although  there  is  nothing  in  the  least  alarming  in 
the  appearance  of  these  sons  of  Mars,  I  must  confess 
that  their  arrival  has  filled  me  with  misgivings.  Ludo- 
vico  still  bears  himself  with  the  air  of  frank  camara- 
derie that  charmed  us  when  we  first  met  him.  The 
Marquis  is  formality  itself,  his  manners  simply  per- 
fection as  such;  what  lies  beyond  and  beneath  an 
exterior  so  impressive  I  have  never  been  clever  enough 
to  discover.  Both  of  these  young  men  address  much 
of  their  conversation  to  Zelphine  and  me,  after  the 

236 


AN   EARTHLY   PARADISE 


polite  Continental  fashion,  yet  neither  one  misses  a 
glance  or  a  movement  of  Angela 's,  and  they  both  fur- 
tively watch  each  other.  It  is  interesting  and  exciting, 
and  would  be  amusing  were  I  not  the  chaperon  and 
temporary  guardian  of  this  apparently  unconscious 
charmer. 

It  is  not  easy  for  such  good  Americans  as  we  are 
to  adapt  our  tongues  to  foreign  titles,  and  for  some 
inexplicable  reason  "  marquis  "  is  much  more  diffi- 
cult for  us  "to  handle,"  as  Angela  says,  than 
1 '  count, ' '  and  the  Italian  ' '  marchese  ' '  is  quite  impos- 
sible. Ludovico  has  relieved  our  embarrassment  by 
telling  us  that  it  is  quite  immaterial  whether  we  call 
his  friend  "  marquis  "  or  "  count,"  as  they  have  both 
titles  in  his  family,  and  several  others  beside. 

This  morning  we  spent  in  the  Church  of  San  Lorenzo, 
where  the  first  Cosimo  de '  Medici  is  buried.  In  one  of 
the  chapels  are  some  statuettes  by  Donatello  and  in  the 
other  the  world-famous  Medici  tombs,  the  thoughtful 
Lorenzo,  the  most  expressive  of  all  marbles,  and 
beneath  him,  the  Dawn  and  Twilight,  the  former  the 
finest  of  the  four  statues,  the  effort  of  waking  from 
sleep  being  plainly  revealed  in  every  line.  The  narrow 
niches  in  which  these  masterpieces  are  placed  are  so 
out  of  all  proportion  to  their  size  and  grandeur  that, 
as  Ludovico  pointed  out  to  us,  they  seem  to  be  slipping 

237 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


off  the  pitiable  pedestals  which  support  them.  Do 
you  remember  what  Euskin  said  of  these  impressive 
figures?  To  him  they  spoke  "  not  of  morning  nor 
evening,  but  of  the  departure  and  the  resurrection, 
the  twilight  and  the  dawn  of  the  souls  of  men. ' '  Zel- 
phine  and  I  think  that  those  few  lines  give  the  motif 
of  the  statues  better  than  any  of  the  elaborate  descrip- 
tions that  have  been  written  about  them. 

May  13th. 

Ludovico  and  Count  B.  accompanied  us  to-day  on 
our  morning  stroll  through  the  galleries.  Ludovico  has 
the  excellent  taste  in  art  that  seems  born  in  these  Latins, 
and  draws  our  attention  to  the  best  pictures  in  each 
gallery  without  recourse  to  guide  or  catalogue.  Count 
B.  doubtless  has  good  taste  also,  but  it  is  not  in  the 
line  of  antiques  at  present,  as  he  seldom  withdraws 
his  eyes  from  Angela 's  face,  except  when  she  expresses 
admiration  or  asks  him  some  question,  when  he  reveals 
his  knowledge  of  Florentine  history  and  tradition  by 
long,  erudite,  and  somewhat  tiresome  explanations. 
This  morning  when  I  expressed  my  preference  for 
the  Raphael  Madonnas  over  and  above  all  others,  the 
Count  delivered  himself  quite  sententiously  of  Vasa- 
ri's  opinion  of  Andrea  del  Sarto's  work,  especially  of 

the  Madonna  del  Sacco,  which  we  saw  again  yester- 

233 


AN   EARTHLY   PARADISE 


day  at  the  Annunziata,  that ' '  for  drawing,  grace,  and 
beauty  of  color,  for  liveliness  and  relief,  no  artist  had 
ever  done  the  like, ' '  after  which  he  repeated  Vasari  's 
story  of  Michael  Angelo  writing  to  Raphael  that  there 
was  "  a  certain  sorry  little  scrub  of  a  painter  going 
about  the  streets  of  Florence  who  would  bring  the 
sweat  to  his  [Raphael's]  brow,  if  he  had  his  chance." 
You  know  the  tale;  Browning  refers  to  it  in  his 
' '  Andrea  del  Sarto. ' '  The  Count  told  this  story  with 
a  glint  of  humor  in  his  handsome  eyes  that  I  have 
never  seen  there  before.  Zelphine  says  that  I  am  not 
quite  just  to  Count  B.  I  am  willing  to  admit  that  he 
is  taller  and  handsomer  than  Ludovico  and  has  more 
the  air  of  a  grand  seigneur;  but  then  I  like  Ludovico 
far  better,  and  no  matter  what  the  Count  says  or 
whom  he  quotes  to  support  his  arguments  in  favor  of 
the  Del  Sarto  Madonnas,  for  tenderness  and  mother- 
liness  we  must  always  come  back  to  the  Raphaels. 
Our  two  companions  found  us  this  morning  lingering 
before  the  lovely  Madonna  with  the  Cardinal-bird, 
which  in  its  sweetness  and  domesticity  is,  I  think,  only 
equalled  by  the  Belle  Jardiniere  of  the  Louvre. 
Zelphine  agrees  with  the  Count  in  his  estimate  of  Del 
Sarto,  but  Angela  and  Ludovico  are  quite  in  sympathy 
with  me  in  their  loyalty  to  Raphael.  When  the  work 
of  both  these  great  masters  is  so  supremely  beautiful, 

239 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


it  seems  absurd  to  be  discussing  their  comparative 
merits  so  hotly.  Which  side  would  you  take,  I 
wonder  ? 

We  crossed  the  Arno  by  the  picture-gallery  of  the 
Ponte  Vecchio,  a  passageway  lined  with  portraits  of 
dead-and-gone  kings  and  queens,  dukes  and  princesses, 
many  of  these  latter  proud  Spanish  ladies  with  whom 
the  crafty  lords  of  Tuscany  allied  themselves.  How 
luxurious  and  beauty-loving  were  those  Medici 
princes!  Not  content  with  a  noble  gallery  of  paint- 
ings on  each  side  of  the  river,  Cosimo  spanned  the 
distance  between  them  with  a  third,  having  already 
turned  the  Florentine  butchers  out  of  the  lower  part 
of  the  Ponte  Vecchio  and  given  their  stalls  to  gold- 
smiths, whose  successors  still  display  their  wares 
here.  Half-way  across  we  stopped  before  the  large 
windows  cut  in  the  sides  of  the  bridge,  which  frame  in 
a  fine  view  of  the  heights  of  San  Miniato  upon  one 
side  and  on  the  other  of  the  windings  of  the  Arno 
and  the  Cascine  with  its  trees  and  shrubbery.  From 
the  bridge,  by  many  stairs,  we  reached  the  vast  salons 
of  the  Pitti  Palace,  which  contain  priceless  treasures 
of  art  with  which  photographs  and  engravings  have 
made  us  all  familiar.  We  passed  from  one  glorious 
Raphael  to  another,  pausing  before  a  superb  Del  Sarto 
or  Murillo  in  a  state  of  rapturous  delight,  until,  as 

240 


AN   EARTHLY   PARADISE 


we  stood  before  Fra  Bartolommeo 's  Marriage  of  St. 
Catherine  of  Siena,  beautiful  in  composition,  drawing, 
and  relief,  a  pleasant  English  voice  at  our  side  said, 
"  Rather  nice,  is  it  not?  " 

We  turned  to  see  a  fresh-faced  girl,  who  addressed 
this  remark  to  the  typical  John  Bull  en  voyage.  We 
waited,  like  her,  for  the  reply  which  came  slowly,  in  a 
gruff  voice. 

"  Yes,  rather.  A  pastel?  " — and  in  just  such  a 
tone  as  one  might  have  spoken  of  a  chromo.  An 
Englishwoman  standing  near,  from  the  London  cock- 
ney district  but  evidently  with  an  appreciation  of  art, 
looked  at  the  girl  compassionately,  and  ejaculated, 
' '  Poor  lidy !  ' '  Whether  the  pitying  tone  was  in  con- 
sequence of  the  girl's  art-limitations  or  because  the 
pretty  creature  was  the  bride  of  the  dull,  red-faced 
giant,  with  whom  she  walked  away,  hand  in  hand,  we 
shall  never  know,  for  just  at  this  moment  we  heard 
a  clock  striking  one.  How  the  morning  had  sped 
away! 

' '  It  will  be  quite  impossible  to  get  back  to  the  pen- 
sion in  time  for  luncheon, ' '  said  Angela.  Upon  which 
Count  B.,  with  elaborate  courtesy,  begged  us  to  honor 
him  by  breakfasting  with  him  in  a  little  garden-cafe 
near  the  entrance  to  the  Boboli  Gardens.  The  lunch- 
eon had  all  been  ordered  in  advance,  this  being,  as  we 
16  241 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


afterwards  discovered,  a  cleverly  arranged  plan  of 
the  Count's  and  Ludovico's,  and  there  was  nothing 
to  do  but  accept  the  invitation  as  graciously  as  it  was 
given. 

The  little  garden  had  been  converted  into  a  bower 
of  roses,  and  the  table  was  a  dream  of  beauty,  cov- 
ered with  exquisite  flowers,  sparkling  glass  and  silver, 
and,  not  less  important  to  hungry  sight-seers,  the 
menu  was  delicious.  It  was  all  like  a  fairy  feast  to 
which  we  had  been  bidden  by  Prince  Charming  him- 
self. Zelphine  said  she  would  not  be  surprised  to  see 
a  white  cat  or  a  genie  appear  at  any  moment. 

"  Priest  and  book  are  what  we  are  in  more  danger 
of  than  white  cat  or  genie,"  I  whispered,  as  I  bent 
over  the  table  to  admire  some  rare  lilies  that  adorned 
its  centre. 

I  feel  as  if  a  spell  of  enchantment  were  being  spread 
around  Angela's  path,  and  yet  she  talks  and  laughs 
and  is  as  free  as  air,  never  by  word  or  look  revealing 
which  of  her  suitors  she  prefers,  or  whether  she  has  a 
penchant  for  either.  The  modern  girl  is  a  study,  as 
you  well  know,  and  Angela  is  not  the  least  interesting 
one  that  I  have  met. 

After  luncheon  the  Count  proposed  that  we  should 
stroll  over  to  the  Boboli  Gardens.  Here  in  one  of  the 

marvellous  pergolas,  where,  by  the  careful  clipping 

242 


AN   EARTHLY    PARADISE 


and  training  of  the  ilexes,  a  refreshing  twilight  shade 
is  to  be  found  at  high  noon,  we  sought  refuge  from  the 
scorching  heat  of  the  sun.  Again  it  appeared  that  our 
host 's  thoughtful  care  had  preceded  us,  as  camp-chairs 
awaited  us  in  this  green  bower,  and  here  coffee  and 
ices  were  served  to  us  as  if  by  magic,  which  we 
enjoyed  in  the  coolness  of  our  pergola,  from  which 
we  looked  forth  upon  the  terraces  beneath  us,  where 
the  horse-chestnuts  are  covered  with  pink  feathery 
bloom,  and  upon  the  old  amphitheatre,  the  fountain, 
and  the  "  cyclopean  massiveness  "  of  the  walls  of  the 
great  Palazzo  Pitti. 

The  amphitheatre  was  filled  with  children  at  play 
and  nurses  with  babies,  as  it  always  is  on  the  free 
days  at  the  Boboli. 

"  Why  are  the  boys  catching  so  many  crickets  and 
putting  them  in  cages?  "  asked  Angela  of  Ludovico. 

For  several  days  we  have  noticed  the  children  in 
the  Cascine  busily  engaged  in  catching  crickets,  on 
the  grass  and  among  the  bushes.  Some  of  the  boys 
go  off  with  dozens  of  them,  sometimes  in  large  cages, 
but  more  frequently  in  a  number  of  pretty  little  cages 
of  wire  or  wood,  all  strung  on  a  stick,  a  single  cricket 
in  each  one. 

"  Yes,"  added  Zelphine,  "  what  is  the  meaning  of 
all  this  catching  of  crickets  ?  ' ' 

243 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


' '  For  Grilli  Day,  of  course, ' '  said  Ludovico,  laugh- 
ing heartily  at  the  idea  of  our  not  knowing  anything 
so  well  known.  "  On  the  feast  of  the  Ascension, 
to-morrow,  you  will  see  what  the  hoys  do  with  the 
grilli,  and  you  will  be  buying  grilli  like  the  rest." 

"  And  why  should  I  buy  crickets,"  asked  Angela, 
"  especially  as  I  don't  like  them  at  all?  " 

' '  For  luck,  of  course,  signorina ;  everybody  buys 
the  grilli  for  luck. ' '  And  then  Ludovico  sang,  in  his 
light,  gay  Italian  fashion  but  in  a  voice  in  which  a 
minor  chord  seemed  to  dominate  the  gay  notes  : 

"  '  Grille,  mio  grille ! 

Si  tu  vo'  moglie  dillo  ! ' " 

To  our  surprise,  the  Count  joined  in  Ludovico 's 
song,  in  a  rich  bass  voice  that  resounded  through  the 
little  pergola  and  brought  a  crowd  of  urchins  to  our 
retreat  with  their  hands  full  of  grilli  in  cages.  The 
Count  laughed  good-humoredly,  and  presented  each 
one  of  us  with  a  caged  grillo,  saying,  "  For  luck, 
ladies;  if  the  grilli  live,  the  luck  will  be  good;  if  not,'* 
with  a  shrug,  "  it  may  be  good  all  the  same." 

He  then  insisted  that  Angela  should  buy  him  a 
grillo  in  a  cage,  which  she  did  laughingly,  but  which 
he  received  quite  seriously,  looking  as  if  he  intended 
to  guard  it  with  his  life. 

244 


AN   EARTHLY   PARADISE 


Zelphine,  her  thirst  for  knowledge  still  unsatisfied, 
asked  for  information  as  to  the  origin  of  this  curious 
custom. 

"  It  is  a  custom  of  great  antiquity,"  replied  Ludo- 
vico,  which,  as  we  have  learned  by  experience,  is  his 
method  of  silencing  troublesome  American  questions 
that  he  is  unable  to  answer.  The  Count,  who  appeared 
to  be  in  an  especially  genial  mood,  then  told  us  many 
stories  and  legends  about  the  grilli,  in  which  fairies 
and  princesses  figured  quite  prominently  and  good- 
ness was  rewarded  and  wickedness  punished  after  the 
charmingly  judicial  fashion  of  fairyland.  One  of  the 
prettiest  of  these  tales  we  found  afterwards  in  Mr. 
Leland's  "  Legends  of  Florence,"  in  the  form  of  a 
poem  called  ' '  The  King  of  the  Crickets. ' ' 

About  four  o'clock  a  delightful  breeze  sprang  up, 
and  Ludovico  proposed  that  we  drive  to  San  Miniato. 
The  suggestion  was  made  apparently  on  the  spur  of 
the  moment,  and  yet  when  we  descended  from  our 
airy  height  to  the  street  below,  carriages  were  await- 
ing us,  not  ordinary  cabs  but  fairy  coaches  fit  for 
princesses. 

The  drive  through  the  Porta  Romana  and  along  the 
hillside  road  of  Le  Colle  was  enchanting.  The  church 
which  Michael  Angelo  called  "  La  Bella  Villanella  " 
is  beautiful  in  its  simplicity.  After  we  had  admired 

245 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


some  of  the  frescoes  on  tke  walls — not  all  of  them — 
and  the  exquisitely  wrought  marble  screen  and  pulpit, 
and  explored  the  crypt  with  its  twenty-eight  columns, 
we  were  glad  to  go  out  upon  the  marble  steps  and 
enjoy  from  thence  the  view  of  Florence  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  the  intervening  hills  covered  with  olive- 
groves  and  vineyards.  Count  B.,  who  had  lingered 
with  Angela  in  the  lovely  cypress  avenue  that  leads  to 
the  church,  joined  us  on  the  terrace  and  took  us  back 
into  the  nave  to  show  us  the  chapel  tomb  of  young 
Cardinal  Jacopo  of  the  royal  house  of  Portugal,  with 
its  beautiful  low  reliefs  by  Luca  della  Robbia.  Des- 
canting eloquently  upon  the  virtues  and  charity  of  the 
Portuguese  cardinal,  who  died  at  an  early  age,  Count 
B.  led  us  down  the  steps  of  the  church  and  out  upon 
the  Piazza  Michelangelo,  where  the  David  stands,  as 
best  becomes  him,  en  plein  air.  You  know  that  the 
original  marble,  of  which  this  is  an  admirable  copy  in 
bronze,  was  sculptured  for  the  Piazza  della  Signoria. 
It  is  now  carefully  guarded  from  the  elements  in  the 
Belle  Arti.  This  noble  figure  is  the  embodiment  of 
glorious,  inextinguishable  youth  and  strength,  and 
is  to  me  the  most  inspiring  of  Michael  Angelo's 
statues. 

Zelphine  and  I  walked  around  the  piazza  to  view 
the  statue  from  all  sides,  while  Count  B.  and  Ludovico 

246 


AN   EARTHLY   PARADISE 


took  turns  in  trying  to  keep  the  sun  off  Angela,  whose 
complexion  seems  to  require  unusual  care  in  these 
days ! 

' '  Is  there  any  other  American  girl  who  could  resist 
all  this  devotion  and  a  title  to  crown  it  ?  "  asked  Zel- 
phine. 

' '  You  seem  to  have  decided  this  important  question 
for  Angela,"  said  I.  "  What  makes  you  think  that 
she  will  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  Prince  Charming 's  suit  ?  ' ' 

"  I  cannot  say  just  why.  Angela  is  charmingly 
polite  and  appreciative,  and  yet ': 

At  this  moment,  having  suddenly  recalled  the  fact 
that  we  existed,  Ludovico  came  over  to  point  out  to 
us  the  beauty  of  the  Duomo  from  this  hill-top,  Giotto 's 
pink  tower  glowing  to  rose  in  the  warm  sunset  light. 

Ludovico  looks  rather  sad  and  distrait,  to  my  think- 
ing; his  views  may  differ  from  Zelphine's,  whose 
"  and  yet — "  may  be  variously  construed  by  the  three 
onlookers  who  anxiously  await  developments. 

Ascension  Day,  otherwise  Grilli  Day. 
Zelphine  and  Angela,  with  the  two  cavaliers  of  the 
party,  started  off  early  this  morning  in  a  great  stage- 
coach to  breakfast  al  fresco  in  some  pretty  garden 
after  the  Florentine  fashion.  The  idea  of  a  festival 
here  seems  to  be  to  breakfast  or  to  dine  anywhere  in 

247 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


space  except  at  home ;  consequently  all  Florence  seems 
to  be  breakfasting  abroad.  The  little  dairies  in  and 
about  the  Cascine  are  surrounded  by  so  many  tables 
filled  with  family  parties  and  gaily  dressed  folk  that 
they  look  like  huge  bouquets  of  many-colored  flowers. 
It  is  delightful  to  see  people  take  their  pleasure  after 
so  natural  and  simple  a  fashion  as  they  do  in  these 
Latin  countries.  To  be  out  of  doors,  with  ever  so 
simple  a  menu  before  them,  seems  to  make  a  festa  for 
these  light-hearted  people. 

Although  I  admire  the  Florentine  custom,  I  was 
glad  to  stay  at  home  to-day  to  write  letters  and  to  sit 
in  the  Cascine,  as  I  am  doing  this  minute,  where  the 
great  trees  spread  "  their  webs  of  full  greenery  " 
above  me  and  the  children  are  playing  all  around  on 
the  grass. 

I  was  rejoicing  in  the  beauty  and  restfulness  of  this 
lovely  spot,  having  up  to  this  time  escaped  the  vendors 
of  grilli,  when  several  boys  approached  me  with  their 
crickets  in  especially  pretty  cages.  "  Quanto?  "  I 
asked,  pointing  to  a  dainty  wire  cage.  "  Una  lira," 
was  the  reply.  This  was  too  much  by  half,  and  having 
managed  to  reduce  the  price  to  the  proper  sum,  I 
handed  the  boy  a  lira,  and  waited  for  the  change  with 
the  cage  in  my  hand.  The  small  salesman  seemed  to 
have  considerable  difficulty  in  finding  the  desired 

248 


AN   EARTHLY   PARADISE 


change,  turned  out  his  pockets,  questioned  his  compan- 
ions, and  finally  rubbed  his  eyes  hard  and  began  to 
weep  piteously.  At  this  moment  a  policeman  ap- 
peared, and  asked  the  boy  what  troubled  him,  when 
he,  accomplished  actor  that  he  was,  pointed  to  the 
cage  in  my  hand,  and  explained  that  I  had  taken  his 
wares  and  not  paid  him  the  half  lira  demanded.  To 
prove  this  he  pointed  to  his  empty  pockets.  "What  he 
had  done  with  my  lira,  whether  he  had  swallowed  it 
or  deposited  it  with  a  confederate,  I  know  not.  The 
policeman,  looking  very  stern,  asked  me  for  an  expla- 
nation, which  I  gave  in  the  best  Italian  that  I  could 
muster,  feeling  quite  sure  that  had  Zelphine  been 
there,  her  ready  tongue  and  eloquent  gestures  would 
have  convinced  that  distrustful  policeman  of  my  inno- 
cence. An  Englishwoman  who  had  witnessed  the 
transaction  approached,  and  gave  in  her  testimony  in 
much  better  Italian  than  mine,  all  to  no  purpose. 

By  this  time  quite  a  crowd  had  gathered  around  us, 
all  deeply  interested.  The  boy,  encouraged  by  a  sym- 
pathetic audience,  wept  copiously  and  repeated  his 
tale  of  woe ;  the  big  policeman  looked  at  me  threat- 
eningly. My  English  ally  repeated  her  explanation, 
and  seeing  that  it  made  no  impression,  and  the  lira 
not  being  in  the  boy's  hands,  she  whispered  to  me, 
"  You  had  better  pay  him  again  for  the  cage;  the 

249 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


policeman  is  evidently  on  the  boy's  side,  and  between 
them  they  may  make  a  disagreeable  scene  for  you." 
' '  Never, ' '  I  replied,  resolutely,  ' '  but  he  shall  have  his 
cage  again,"  handing  it  to  the  little  gamin,  saying, 
"  I  have  paid  for  it  twice  already,  but  you  may 
have  it." 

The  scene  was  already  sufficiently  disagreeable,  and, 
supported  by  my  English  friend,  I  made  my  way  to 
another  part  of  the  Cascine,  with  visions  of  a  Floren- 
tine court  and  jail  floating  through  my  mind. 

"  That  is  one  of  the  stock  tricks  of  these  gamins," 
she  explained.  "  It  would  have  been  all  right  if  you 
had  given  him  the  half  lira  at  once,  but  with  the  whole 
lira  in  his  hand  there  came  the  temptation  to  keep  it 
all.  These  people  see  so  little  money,  a  lira  is  quite  a 
fortune  to  them. ' ' 

The  grilli  had  certainly  brought  me  no  luck,  and  I 
now  carefully  avoid  looking  at  a  cage,  although  I  do 
want  one  of  the  pretty  little  wire  ones  to  take  home 
with  me.  Perhaps  Ludovico  will  get  me  one.  When 
he  joined  me  later  and  heard  of  my  experience,  he 
was  so  indignant  that  if  he  could  have  laid  hands  on 
that  small  actor  it  is  doubtful  whether  his  histrionic 
powers  would  have  been  allowed  to  develop  to  matu- 
rity. The  humor  of  the  situation  did  not  appeal  to 
him,  as  it  did  to  Angela  and  Zelphine. 

250 


AN    EARTHLY    PARADISE 


May  16th. 

As  Ludovico  and  Count  B.  do  not  speak  of  leaving 
Florence  soon,  we  conclude  that  the  military  affairs 
that  keep  them  here  must  be  of  a  rather  protracted 
nature.  They  do  not,  however,  complain  of  the  delay, 
nor  do  we.  To  be  escorted  by  two  devoted  cavaliers 
through  palaces  and  villas  and  gardens  of  delight  is 
an  experience  that  one  might  wish  to  prolong  indefi- 
nitely. Halcyon  days  are  these,  truly,  and  if  storms 
and  rain  come,  it  is  only  at  night,  as  we  awake  each 
morning  to  find  the  sun  shining  upon  the  rose-garden 
beneath  our  windows  and  a  new  day  of  pleasure 
beckoning  us  on. 

We  have  had  some  charming  afternoons  in  the  villas 
near  Florence.  Yesterday  we  went  to  Sesto  in  a  tram 
that  starts  from  the  Piazza  del  Duomo,  and  from 
Sesto  a  short  walk  brought  us  to  Castello.  This  royal 
villa,  which  once  belonged  to  the  Medici,  is  full  of 
family  portraits,  and  some  of  its  beautiful  rooms  look 
really  home-like — "  as  if  one  could  live  in  them," 
Angela  said,  which  remark  seemed  greatly  to  amuse 
Count  B.,  who  has,  I  fancy,  spent  all  his  days  in  such 
cold,  formal  apartments  as  are  to  be  found  in  most  of 
these  palaces.  It  was  in  the  gardens,  however,  that 
we  were  tempted  to  linger.  Those  of  Castello  are 
elaborately  laid  out  and  adorned  with  fountains  and 

251 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


statues,  and  now  with  the  orange  and  lemon  trees  in 
blossom  are  filled  with  delicious  fragrance.  "We 
stopped  so  long  on  the  terrace  under  the  great  ilexes 
and  beeches  that  the  twilight  had  begun  to  fall  and 
the  nightingales  to  sing  before  we  started  homeward. 
Usignuoli  Ludovico  calls  these  birds  of  the  night.  He 
and  the  Count  were  so  pleased  with  Zelphine  's  delight 
over  Castello  and  its  nightingales  that  they  insisted 
upon  taking  us  this  afternoon  to  Petraja,  an  even 
more  elaborate  villa  on  the  heights  above  Castello.  In 
this  villa,  which  is  on  the  southern  slope  of  the  Apen- 
nines, Scipione  Ammirato  wrote  his  celebrated  history 
of  Florence.  In  the  last  century  Petraja  was  elab- 
orately fitted  up  by  Victor  Emmanuel  II.  for  Madame 
Mirafiore,  for  which  reason,  probably,  it  has  not  been 
a  favorite  residence  of  the  royal  family  of  Italy,  and 
its  lovely  gardens  and  terraces  are  enjoyed  only  by 
tourists  and  occasional  visitors. 


252 


XVI 

FIESOLE 


FIESOLE,  Tuesday,  May  17th. 

women,  in  the  absence  of  our  cavaliers,  who  will 
be  away  for  two  days  upon  some  special  military 
service,  have  planned  to  spend  a  day  in  f airyland  and 
an  evening  in  Bohemia.  Is  not  that  a  sufficiently  sen- 
sational beginning  to  please  one  of  our  own  news- 
papers at  home?  This  morning,  Bertha  and  Mrs. 
Robins  having  joined  us,  we  all  set  forth  in  a  tram 
from  the  Piazza  della  Signoria  for  Fiesole.  Half- 
way up  the  hillside  we  stopped  at  the  Domenico, 
where  Fra  Angelico  lived  as  a  monk,  gathering  here, 
as  one  of  his  brothers  relates,  "  in  abundance  the 
flowers  of  art  whjch  he  seemed  to  have  plucked  from 
Paradise."  One  of  the  richest  of  these  treasures, 
the  Coronation  of  the  Virgin,  has  been  carried  away 
to  the  Louvre,  but  there  is  still  in  the  choir  of  the 
Domenico  a  lovely  memorial  of  him — a  Virgin  En- 
throned between  St.  John  the  Baptist  and  St.  John 
the  Evangelist.  Behind  the  group  are  five  guardian 
angels  with  tributes  of  flowers  in  their  hands.  This 

253 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


and  a  Baptism  of  Christ,  by  Lorenzo  di  Credi,  are  the 
treasures  of  the  Domenico.  "We  stopped  at  La  Badia 
and  enjoyed  the  fine  view  from  its  terrace,  and  walked 
slowly  past  the  Villa  Landore,  now  shut  in  by  tall 
cypresses,  where  Walter  Savage  Landor  once  lived. 
Here  in  these  beautiful  grounds  described  by  Boc- 
caccio in  his  "  Valley  of  Ladies,"  surrounded  by  his 
little  children  and  his  many  pets,  Porigi  the  house- 
dog, the  cat  Cincirillo,  whose  original  sin  showed  itself 
in  a  decided  taste  for  birds,  the  tame  martin,  and 
the  leveret,  Landor  spent  the  most  peaceful  years  of 
a  life  that  was  far  from  happy.  "  Aerial  Fiesole  " 
he  might  well  name  this  lovely  hillside  garden,  in 
which  he  promised  Mr.  Francis  Hare  and  his  bride 
"  grapes,  figs,  and  nightingale  concerts  galore."  At 
the  Medici  Villa,  a  favorite  residence  of  Lorenzo  the 
Magnificent,  we  admired  once  again  the  unerring  taste 
of  old  Cosimo,  who  chose  for  a  summer  residence  this 
favorite  spot  which  overhangs  Florence.  Brunelles- 
chi's  superb  dome,  Giotto's  belfry,  Santa  Maria 
Novella,  beautiful  as  a  bride,  Santa  Croce,  San  Marco, 
and  San  Spirito,  all  stood  out  in  fairy-like  beauty  this 
lovely  May  morning. 

After  stopping  at  the  cathedral  on  the  Piazza  of 
Fiesole,  and  at  Santa  Maria  Primerana  to  look  at  a 
tabernacle  by  one  of  the  Delia  Robbias  and  a  painting 

254 


FIESOLE 

by  Andrea  da  Fiesole,  Angela  insisted  that  we  had 
done  our  whole  duty  as  sight-seers  and  might  now 
begin  to  enjoy  ourselves  in  earnest.  To  this  Bertha 
heartily  agreed,  suggesting  that  as  we  had  come  to 
Fiesole  for  a  day  of  rest  and  recreation  in  the  open, 
we  should  lunch  on  the  terrace  of  the  little  hotel,  and 
spend  the  afternoon  in  the  ancient  theatre. 

We  have  learned  in  Florence,  even  better  than  in 
vast  Rome,  whose  historic  past  appealed  to  us  so  insist- 
ently on  all  sides,  that  it  is  not  in  the  galleries  and 
churches,  interesting  as  they  are,  that  we  find  the  most 
pleasure,  but  in  the  market-places  and  on  the  streets, 
with  their  chatter  and  life,  or  in  sitting,  as  we  sat 
to-day,  on  the  hotel  terrace,  with  the  fertile  plain 
spread  before  us  and  the  garden  at  our  feet,  in  which 
the  peasants  were  singing  at  their  tasks.  Beyond  are 
villa-dotted  hills,  and  still  beyond,  the  chain  of  dis- 
tant mountains  veiled  in  purple  light,  which  melts 
into  the  azure  sky  with  an  indescribable  charm  of  its 
own. 

Florence  is  on  the  other  side  of  Fiesole,  and  from 
the  terrace  we  had  a  rural  view,  with  nothing  but  hill, 
valley,  and  mountain,  excepting  the  villas,  of  course, 
among  these  Vincigliata,  which  Katharine  says  we 
must  see  if  we  would  know  what  a  castle  of  the  middle 
ages  is  like.  Vincigliata  is  built  on  the  ruins  of  a 

255 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


castle  of  the  Bisdomini,  and  contains  great  collections 
of  ancient  furniture  and  armor.  We  shall  drive  out 
to  Vincigliata  in  a  coach  and  four  some  day,  as  this  is 
a  favorite  afternoon  excursion  from  the  Pension  C. 

Having  finished  our  luncheon,  which  was  quite  Ital- 
ian and  really  delicious,  we  strolled  down  to  the  old 
amphitheatre,  where  we  sit  on  the  stone  seats  and  look 
away  toward  Florence  while  Mrs.  Robins  reads  to  us 
Browning's  "  Old  Pictures  in  Florence  "  and  "  An- 
drea del  Sarto, ' '  both  poems  so  full  of  the  atmosphere 
of  the  beautiful  city. 

The  other  day  when  we  were  at  the  Annunziata,  at 
the  corner  of  the  Via  della  Mandorla,  we  saw  the  little 
house  where  Andrea  and  his  fair  and  false  Lucrezia 
sat  in  the  evenings  and  looked  over  toward  "  yonder 
sober,  pleasant  Fiesole."  We  seem  to  see  the  old- 
world  pair  sitting  there 

"  Inside  that  melancholy  little  house 
We  built  to  be  so  gay  with," 

Andrea  with  the  face  of  an  artist  and  dreamer,  a 
trifle  weak  withal,  and  she  with  the 

"  Perfect  eyes,  and  more  than  perfect  mouth, 
And  the  low  voice  my  soul  hears,  as  a  bird 
The  fowler's  pipe,  and  follows  to  the  snare." 
256 


FIESOLE 

How  beautiful  this  Lucrezia  was  we  know  from  many 
a  picture  of  Andrea 's.  Zelphine  and  I  think  that  the 
Madonna  del  Sacco  must  have  been  likest  to  her.  The 
superb  beauty  of  flesh  and  blood,  line  and  color,  so 
satisfies  us  that  we  do  not  miss  the  soul  that  seems  to 
have  been  wanting  in  the  original ;  or  did  Andrea, 
artist-like,  give  to  the  pictured  Lucrezia  graces  with 
which  his  imagination  endowed  her?  We  hope  so, 
for  if  he  saw  her  as  Browning  represents  her  in  his 
poem,  he  must  have  been  indeed  the  most  unhappy 
of  men. 

"While  I  write,  Angela  and  Zelphine  try  to  get  snap- 
shots of  us  as  we  sit  under  the  trees,  and  Katharine 
warns  us  that  we  shall  soon  have  to  turn  our  faces 
homeward,  if  we  wish  to  be  in  time  for  the  dinner  in 
Bohemia  to  which  she  invites  us. 

PENSION  C.,  Tuesday  Evening. 

Our  evening  in  Bohemia  was,  in  its  way,  quite  as 
much  of  a  success  as  the  day  in  fairyland.  Katharine 
conducted  us  through  winding  streets,  whose  twistings 
and  turnings  we  shall  never  be  able  to  follow  without 
Ariadne's  thread,  to  a  cafe  in  a  cellar,  where  artists 
most  do  congregate.  A  friend  of  Katharine's,  an 
exceedingly  pretty  and  vivacious  Englishwoman, 
joined  us  at  table,  and  amused  us  very  much  by  telling 

257 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


us  that  she  had  sometimes  been  taken  for  an  Amer- 
ican and  was  said  to  talk  like  an  American,  which 
evidently  pleased  her  very  much.  Did  I  think  so? 
I  laughed,  and  said  that  she  would  have  to  talk  many 
different  ways  in  order  to  verify  the  description,  aa 
that  was  a  part  of  our  infinite  variety.  She  said  that 
she  had  recently  met  a  unique  American  man. 

"  Why  unique?  "  asked  Bertha. 

"In  being  selfish,"  was  the  prompt  reply.  "  All 
the  American  men  I  had  met  before  were  unselfish, 
chivalrous,  ready  to  do  anything  and  everything  for 
the  comfort  and  pleasure  of  the  women  of  their  party ; 
but  this  man,  this  unique  specimen,  seemed  to  forget 
that  we  existed." 

Now  was  not  that  a  pleasant  hearing,  and  are  you 
not  proud  of  the  reputation  of  your  compatriots? 

While  we  were  discussing  national  traits  the  cook, 
in  white  cap  and  apron,  was  broiling  our  beefsteak 
and  cooking  vegetables  over  his  little  charcoal  fire; 
these  he  served  to  us  smoking  hot  and  delicious.  The 
wine  was  brought  on  the  table  in  a  huge  bottle,  which 
was  weighed  before  and  afterwards,  like  the  unfort- 
unates who  are  fattened  on  cereals  and  predigested 
foods,  with  this  difference,  that  the  bottle  lost  in 
weight  instead  of  gaining,  and  we  paid  for  the  short- 
age. We  had  an  omelette  soufflee  of  the  lightest  for 

258 


FIESOLE 

our  dessert,  after  which  a  man  in  a  white  paper  cap 
handed  around  a  tray  of  sweets,  all  manner  of  deli- 
cious confections  on  sticks,  for  each  of  which  we  paid 
one  soldo.  It  was  all  delightfully  novel  and  Bohe- 
mian, and  as  we  strolled  home  by  the  Arno,  with  the 
sound  of  its  rushing  water  in  our  ears,  its  shining 
breast  gleaming  like  silver  in  the  moonlight,  we  sang 
old  songs,  like  college-girls,  and  were  so  happy  that 
one  drop  more  would  have  caused  our  cup  of  content 
to  overflow  in  tears — and  if  tears  had  been  shed  it 
would  have  been  because  some  of  those  we  care  for 
were  not  here  to  share  with  us  the  pleasure  of  this 
day  of  days  and  this  night  of  perfect  beauty. 

May   18th. 

If  we  think  of  Dante  and  Savonarola  as  we  cross 
the  Piazza  of  the  Signoria  and  walk  through  the  nar- 
row winding  streets  that  lead  from  it,  every  old  build- 
ing and  quaint  corner  recalls  some  line  or  verse  of  the 
Brownings,  husband  or  wife.  In  the  Via  Belle  Donne 
we  naturally  thought  of  them,  as  it  was  in  this  little 
street,  which  opens  into  the  Piazza  di  Santa  Maria 
Novella,  that  the  poet  lovers  first  made  their  home, 
and  in  the  Cascine,  where  we  saw  some  of  the  lovely 
Florentine  beauties,  as  Mrs.  Browning  described  them, 
"  lean  and  melt  to  music  as  the  band  plays,"  and 

259 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


above  all  at  the  Belvedere,  that  crowns  the  many  ter- 
races of  the  Boboli  Gardens,  from  which  height  Flor- 
ence, with  her  domes  and  towers  and  palaces,  framed 
in  by  hills  of  blue  velvet,  answers  to  the  poet's  own 
picture  of  the  beautiful  city,  and 

"  Of  golden  Arno,  as  it  shoots  away 

Through  Florence'  heart  beneath  her  bridges  four!" 

To-day  has  been  devoted  to  Browning  pilgrimages. 
An  American  woman  at  our  table  rashly  asserted  that. 
Mr.  Browning  had  made  a  mistake  in  his  ' '  Statue  and 
the  Bust  "  by  placing  the  lady  with  the  "  pale  brow 
spirit-pure  "  at  the  window  of  the  Riccardi  Palace, 
as  it  would  be  quite  impossible  for  the  great  Duke 
Ferdinand  to  look  up  from  the  Piazza  of  the  Annun- 
ziata  at  the  casement  of  the  Palazzo  Riccardi,  now 
the  Prefettura,  which  is  way  over  on  the  Piazza  San 
Lorenzo.  This  statement  may  seem  to  you  a  trifle  con- 
fusing ;  but  it  was  sufficiently  clear  to  rouse  Zelphine  's 
ire,  and  after  breakfast  we  set  forth  determined  to 
clear  up  the  seeming  inconsistency.  In  the  Piazza  of 
the  Annunziata  Duke  Ferdinand  still  "  rides  by  with 
the  royal  air,"  as  John  of  Bologna  has  represented 
him,  "  in  subtle  mould  of  brazen  shape,"  his  face 
turned  directly  toward  the  one  window  of  the  palace, 
from  which  a  terra-cotta  bust  should  look  forth. 

260 


FIESOLE 

"  This  all  answers  perfectly  to  the  description," 
said  Angela,  ' '  except  that  there  is  no  bust  of  the  lady 
at  the  casement;  it  seems  as  if  Mr.  Browning  had 
made  a  mistake  this  time.  I  really  don't  care  very 
much,  but  I  can't  stand  having  that  flippant,  red- 
haired  woman  get  the  better  of  you,  Z. ' ' 

' '  She  shall  not, ' '  said  Zelphine,  with  determination 
in  every  line  of  her  lithe  figure.  "  Vieusseux  to  the 
rescue!  " 

Zelphine  set  forth  to  gain  what  information  might 
be  had  from  the  library  shelves,  while  Angela  and  I 
crossed  over  to  the  Piazza  San  Lorenzo,  and  spent  a 
delightful  hour  in  studying  the  wonderful  frescoes 
that  adorn  the  chapel  of  the  debatable  Palazzo 
Kiccardi. 

Here  is  that  most  remarkable  procession  of  the 
Magi  winding  along  a  rocky  hillside,  the  perspective 
of  the  most  original  character :  Cosimo,  Pater  Patrias, 
well  in  the  foreground,  the  Three  Kings  represented 
by  the  Patriarch  of  Constantinople,  the  Emperor  of 
the  East,  and,  youngest  of  the  three,  Lorenzo  the  Mag- 
nificent, on  a  white  charger.  You  know  the  painting 
well,  but  no  photograph  can  give  you  any  conception 
of  the  richness  of  color  and  exquisite  details  of  this 
impossible,  fairy-like  landscape,  in  which  distant 
mountains,  hovering  angels,  birds,  beasts,  and  flowers 

201 


ITALIAN  DAYS   AND  WAYS 

unknown  to  this  lower  world,  add  to  the  variety  and 
charm  of  Gozzoli's  great  work.  It  is  of  this  fresco 
that  Mr.  Ruskin  wrote,  ' '  Bright  birds  hover  here  and 
there  in  the  serene  sky,  and  groups  of  angels,  hand 
joined  with  hand  and  wing  with  wing,  glide  and  float 
through  the  glades  of  the  unentangled  forest. ' ' 

Angela  and  I  were  so  absorbed  in  the  beauty  of  the 
painting  that  we  had  quite  forgotten  about  Zelphine  's 
quest,  when  a  voice  at  our  side  exclaimed,  triumph- 
antly : 

"  I  have  solved  the  riddle.  The  palace  on  the 
Square  of  the  Annunziata  was  a  Riccardi  palace  at 
the  time  of  Mr.  Browning's  poem,  and  at  the  window 
toward  which  Duke  Ferdinand's  eyes  are  turned 
there  was  a  bust  of  a  lady  as  late  as  1887.  The  present 
Palazzo  Riccardi,  now  the  Prefettura,  was  once  a 
Medici  palace;  it  was  sold  many  years  later  to  the 
Riccardi  family.  Here  Duke  Ferdinand  made  his 
feast  on  the  night  of  the  wedding,  the  one  and  only 
time  that  the  lovers  met: 

" '  Face  to  face  the  lovers  stood, 
A  single  minute  and  no  more, 
While  the  bridegroom  bent  as  a  man  subdued — 
Bowed  till  his  bonnet  touched  the  floor — 
For  the  Duke  on  the  lady  a  kiss  conferred, 
As  the  courtly  custom  was  of  yore.' 
262 


FIESOLE 

Cannot  you  see  it  all?  "  continued  Zelphine,  breath- 
lessly, quite  regardless  of  the  interest  that  her  ani- 
mated face  and  eager  words  were  exciting  in  the  little 
group  around  us, 

" '  the  pile  which  the  mighty  shadow  makes, 
For  Via  Largo  is  three-parts  light, 
But  the  palace  overshadows  one, 
Because  of  a  crime  which  may  God  requite ! ' 

This  crime  was  the  murder  of  Duke  Alessandro  by  his 
distant  cousin  Lorenzino,  and  this,  you  see,  fixes  the 
fact  beyond  dispute  that  the  feast  was  given  by  the 
Duke  in  this  great  Eiccardi  palace  on  the  Square  of 
San  Lorenzo.  Isn't  it  all  wonderful  and  thrilling, 
and  is  there  any  place  in  the  world  so  filled  to  the  very 
brim  with  interest  and  romance  as  Florence?  " 

"  No  place  except  Rome,"  said  Angela,  true  to  her 
first  love. 

'  Yes,  but  the  history  seems  less  remote  here ;  every- 
thing seems  nearer  and  closer,  more  intimate — you 
understand  what  I  mean,  Margaret." 

"When  Zelphine  appeared  at  the  lunch  table,  flushed 
with  the  joy  of  victory  and  quite  ready  to  annihilate 
her  scoffing  adversary,  whom  Angela  disrespectfully 
designated  as  "  Red-top,"  she  found,  to  her  dismay, 
that  the  lady  had  left  for  Venice  before  noon.  This 

263 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND   WAYS 


is  surely  one  of  the  incompletenesses  of  life.  To  think 
of  that  misguided  woman  proceeding  on  her  way  to 
scatter  misinformation  broadcast,  when  Zelphine  could 
have  set  her  right  in  five  minutes ! 

When  Bertha  heard  of  Zelphine 's  disappointment, 
she  was  most  sympathetic,  and  proposed,  as  a  con- 
genial and  solacing  occupation,  that  we  should  return 
that  afternoon  to  the  Square  of  San  Lorenzo  and  try 
to  find  the  old  stall  where  Mr.  Browning,  on  a  mem- 
orable June  day,  bought  for  a  lira  the  little  volume 
that  contained  the  whole  story  of  ' '  The  Ring  and  the 
Book." 

The  piazza,  a  market  for  old  clothes,  old  furniture, 
and  all  manner  of  cooking-utensils,  still  answers  to 
Mr.  Browning's  description,  and  here,  close  to  the 
statue,  which  is  of  Giovanni  delle  Bande  Nere,  father 
of  the  first  Cosimo,  is  just  such  a  table  full  of  nonde- 
script rubbish  as  the  one  upon  which  the  poet  found 
the  parchment-covered  book  which  furnished  him  with 
his  plot.  Then  at  Bertha's  suggestion,  to  humor  our 
fancies  as  to  the  associations  of  the  time  and  place, 
we  followed  in  the  poet's  footsteps,  as  he  described 
himself,  walking  and  reading, 

"on,  through  street  and  street, 
At  the  Strozzi,  at  the  Pillar,  at  the  Bridge; 
264 


FIESOLE 

Till,  by  the  time  I  stood  at  home  again 

In  Casa  Guidi  by  Felice  Church, 

Under  the  doorway  where  the  black  begins 

AYith  the  first  stone-slab  of  the  staircase  cold, 

I  had  mastered   the  contents,  knew  the  whole  truth 

Gathered  together,  bound  up  in  this  book." 

To  my  surprise,  when  we  reached  the  doorway  of 
the  Casa  Guidi,  Bertha  also  entered  "  where  the  black 
begins, ' '  and  began  to  ascend  ' '  the  staircase  cold. ' ' 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  we  called  after  her, 
standing  within  the  doorway. 

"  Follow  me,"'  said  Bertha.  "  I  have  some  friends 
who  live  in  an  apartment  in  the  Casa  Guidi,  and  we 
are  all  invited  to  afternoon  tea  here. ' ' 

"  "Why  didn't  you  tell  us  before?  "  asked  Angela, 
"  so  that  we  might  have  made  ourselves  a  little 
smart?  " 

' '  Because  I  wanted  to  give  you  all  a  surprise.  My 
friend  asked  me  to  bring  you  any  afternoon,  so  I 
sent  a  messenger  to  tell  her  that  we  were  coming,  to 
make  sure  of  her  being  at  home,  as  she  often  spends 
the  afternoon  up  in  the  Boboli  Gardens  with  her 
baby." 

Alas!  Bertha's  artist  friends  do  not  live  in  the 
Browning  apartment,  as  that,  by  some  irony  of  fate, 
is  in  the  possession  of  an  Austrian  family;  but  as 

265 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


Zelphine  said,  with  a  rapturous  look  in  her  eyes,  it 
was  worth  much  to  pass  over  the  stairs  that  had  known 
the  footsteps  of  the  two  poets.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cobbe's 
apartment  is  on  what  we  should  call  the  fourth  floor, 
which  here  they  more  encouragingly  designate  the 
third.  Charming  airy  rooms,  at  the  top  of  many 
stairs,  we  found  the  home  of  the  two  American  artists, 
where  a  warm  welcome  awaited  us.  Later,  refresh- 
ments were  served  to  us  in  the  large  room  that  corre- 
sponds to  Mrs.  Browning's  drawing-room  on  the  floor 
below;  but  whether  we  ate  and  drank  ordinary  cakes 
and  tea,  or  were  regaled  with  nectar  and  ambrosia, 
Zelphine  and  I  cannot  tell  you.  It  was  all  so  delight- 
fully homelike  and  yet  so  filled  with  associations  that 
this  afternoon  in  the  Casa  Guidi  will  always  be  one 
of  our  most  cherished  memories,  and  we  parted  with 
our  compatriots  feeling  that  the  old  palace  was  an 
appropriate  setting  for  artist  as  well  as  for  poet 
lovers. 

PENSION  C.,  FLORENCE,  May  20th. 

What  will  you  say  when  I  tell  you  that  since  writ- 
ing my  last  letter  to  you  I  have  received  a  proposal  of 
marriage?  M.  le  Marquis  de  B.  di  T.,  of  ancient 
Roman  lineage  and  irreproachable  family  connections, 
laid  his  heart,  his  hand,  and  his  fortune  at  my  feet — 
for  Angela.  Are  you  amused  at  my  role?  I  assure 

266 


FIESOLE 

you  that  it  was  not  in  the  smallest  degree  amusing  at 
the  time,  and  the  fact  that  the  pretendant  acted  in  a 
highly  honorable  manner,  and  did  not  consult  Angela 
definitively  before  speaking  to  her  stern  guardian, 
added  to  the  difficulties  of  my  position.  I  explained, 
at  some  length,  that  affairs  of  the  heart  are  arranged 
by  the  young  people  themselves  in  America,  always,  of 
course,  with  the  consent  of  their  parents  and  guard- 
ians— for  this  last  unqualified  statement  I  trust  that 
I  may  be  forgiven — to  which  I  added  that  if  Miss 
Haldane  returned  the  Count's  affection,  we  would 
both  write  to  her  father.  After  delivering  myself  of 
a  series  of  appropriate  phrases  I  sent  for  Angela,  and 
awaited  the  result  of  the  interview  between  the  two 
young  persons  with  some  anxiety,  as  you  may  believe. 
You  will  be  laughing  at  me  and  reflecting  upon  the 
inconsistency  of  women  when  I  tell  you  that  I  felt 
quite  disturbed  over  Angela's  absolute  and  unequiv- 
ocal dismissal  of  the  Count 's  suit.  He  has  been  grow- 
ing in  favor  with  me  ever  since  that  fairy-like  after- 
noon at  the  Boboli  Gardens,  and  when  he  came  to  take 
a  solemn  and  ceremonious  farewell  of  me,  assuring 
me  that  he  had  spent  the  happiest  hours  of  his  life  in 
our  society,  and  was  so  exquisitely  courteous,  so  evi- 
dently anxious  to  save  me  from  embarrassment,  I 
found  myself  liking  him  almost  as  much  as  Ludovico. 

267 


ITALIAN  DAYS   AND  WAYS 

"We  shall  miss  him  sadly,  and,  to  add  to  our  sorrows, 
Ludovico,  loyal  friend  that  he  is,  has  gone  with  the 
Count. 

"  Did  you  send  him  away,  too,  heartless  one?  "  I 
asked  Angela. 

She  looked  at  me  reproachfully,  her  lovely  blue  eyes 
full  of  tears,  and  replied,  with  gentle  dignity,  "  How 
can  you  be  so  unkind,  Margaret?  You  know  very 
well  that  I  did  not. " 

It  appears  that  this  is  all  that  Zelphine  and  I  are  to 
hear  on  this  most  exciting  subject,  although  we  are 
naturally  devoured  with  curiosity  to  know  more.  If 
only  Count  B.  had  not  declared  himself  just  at  this 
time,  when  we  were  all  so  happy  together  in  this  beau- 
tiful Florence!  I  am  quite  sure  that  the  affair  was 
brought  to  a  crisis  by  Angela's  charming  appearance 
last  Sunday  in  a  ravishing  costume  of  pale  blue  muslin, 
her  golden  crescent  of  hair  adorned  with  one  of  the 
Tuscan  hats  that  we  buy  for  next  to  nothing  at  the 
Mercato  Vecchio.  This  particular  hat  was  of  silvery- 
blue  turned  up  with  white  roses,  and  became  her 
almost  as  well  as  a  coronet — so  I  am  sure  the  Count 
thought.  To-day  there  is  nothing  gay  in  the  heavens 
above  or  on  the  earth  beneath,  as  the  skies,  suiting 
themselves  to  our  mood,  are  heavy  and  gray,  and  the 
Arno  is  dull  green  instead  of  lovely  blue. 

268 


THE   MICHAEL   ANGELO   WELL   AT  THE   CERTOSA,  FLORENCE 


FIESOLE 

The  Convent  of  San  Marco  was  decided  upon  as  an 
appropriate  place  in  which  to  spend  this  morning,  and 
there,  walking  through  the  cloisters,  adorned  with 
their  exquisite  frescoes,  Zelphine  and  I  to  some  extent 
renewed  our  interest  in  life.  Angela  has  gone  off  on 
a  sketching  trip  to  Certosa  with  Katharine  Clarke. 
She  has  been  wishing  ever  since  she  first  saw  it  to  get 
a  sketch  of  the  Michael  Angelo  well  in  the  convent 
garden,  and  then  I  think  that  she  is  glad  to  be 
away  from  our  questioning  eyes  for  a  day.  Poor 
child !  she  looks  pale  and  wan ;  the  excitement  of  the 
last  weeks  has  been  too  much  for  her.  We  are  thinking 
seriously  of  leaving  for  Venice  soon.  Of  course  we 
have  not  seen  half  the  things  we  wish  to  see  in  Flor- 
ence, but  we  can  never  be  quite  as  happy  here  as  we 
have  been,  and  Miss  Morris  writes  from  Venice,  urging 
us  to  join  her  there  for  the  full  o'  the  moon. 

Zelphine  and  I  talked  over  our  plans  as  we  strolled 
through  the  cloisters,  and  in  the  little  convent  garden 
tried  to  fancy  the  great  preacher  of  San  Marco  sitting 
under  the  "  damask  rose-tree,"  with  his  disciples 
gathered  around  him.  The  spirit  of  Savonarola  dom- 
inates San  Marco  as  that  of  St.  Francis  holds  one  spell- 
bound in  Assisi. 

Some  of  the  little  cells  of  the  brothers  are  adorned 
with  exquisite  frescoes  by  Fra  Angelico,  which  must 

269 


ITALIAN  DAYS   AND  WAYS 

often  have  cheered  their  sad  hearts.  We  stood  in 
Savonarola's  own  small  room,  which  is  marked  by  a 
memorial  tablet,  and  here  in  the  adjoining  chapel  are 
his  rosary  and  the  crucifix  before  which  he  knelt  in 
prayer. 

Curious  and  unexpected,  savoring  more  of  the  pride 
of  life  than  of  the  humility  of  the  spirit,  in  one  of  the 
cells  of  San  Marco  is  an  elaborate  genealogical  tree 
giving  the  descent  of  the  monks.  It  was  with  some 
difficulty  that  we  deciphered  the  name  of  Savonarola, 
now  almost  obliterated  by  the  kisses  of  the  faithful. 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  paintings  in  the  convent  is 
a  Last  Supper,  by  Ghirlandajo,  in  the  smaller  refec- 
tory. This  picture,  with  its  lovely  details,  decorated 
background,  and  well-spread  board,  does  not  represent 
poor  men  or  fishermen  at  meat;  but  in  Italy  one 
becomes  accustomed  to  the  rich  surroundings  of 
Madonnas,  saints,  and  apostles.  Eealism  is  not 
demanded;  it  is  enough  if  one  finds  reverence  and 
devotion;  and  as  Mr.  Henry  James  says  of  this  pic- 
ture, "  the  figures  in  their  varied  naturalness  have  a 
dignity  and  sweetness  of  attitude  which  admits  of 
numberless  reverential  constructions. ' '  The  grouping 
is  charming,  and  through  open  arcades  one  looks 
beyond  at  a  garden  of  full-fruited  orange-trees,  clus- 
ters of  fruit  are  scattered  over  the  table,  strange  birds 

270 


FIESOLE 

fly  through  the  air,  and  a  peacock  perched  on  the  wall 
looks  down  upon  the  sacred  feast.  I  shall  always 
recall  this  painting,  so  lovely  in  composition,  so  rich 
in  color,  when  I  think  of  San  Marco — this  and  Fra 
Angelico's  beautiful  Annunciation,  which  is  familiar 
to  us  all.  We  shall  not  see  them  soon  again,  or  any 
of  the  other  pictures  that  we  love  so  well  in  the  Uffizi 
and  the  Pitti  and  the  Belle  Arti ;  instead,  we  shall  be 
studying  the  Carpaccios  in  Venice. 

May  23d. 

The  skies  have  cleared  to-day  and  life  looks 
brighter,  yet  this  is  the  anniversary  of  a  most  tragic 
event,  the  execution  of  Savonarola.  The  great  Piazza 
della  Signoria  has  been  crowded  with  people  all  morn- 
ing; there  have  been  processions,  and  services  in  the 
churches,  and  hundreds  of  men  and  women  going  to 
offer  their  tribute  of  flowers  to  the  memory  of  the 
great  martyr  for  conscience '  sake,  until  the  tablet  that 
marks  the  spot  where  Savonarola's  body  was  burned 
is  heaped  with  wreaths,  crosses,  and  bunches  of  roses 
of  various  colors.  Some  of  these  offerings  have  cards 
attached  to  them  with  Savonarola's  name  written  on 
them;  upon  others  are  inscriptions  and  sentiments, 
the  one  that  most  impressed  us  being  ' '  To  Savonarola, 
a  Martyr  to  Democratic  Christianity. ' '  If  time  has  its 
revenges,  it  has  also  its  justifications ! 

271 


XVII 

HAPS  AND    HAPPENINGS 


BEAU  RIVAGE,  VENICE,  May  25th. 

As  we  first  saw  Venice  from  the  train,  across  a 
stretch  of  green  marsh,  its  domes,  spires,  churches,  and 
bridges  seemed  to  rise  out  of  the  water  just  as  you  see 
them  in  Turner's  pictures,  with  such  an  atmosphere 
as  that  great  artist  knew  how  to  paint,  veiling  the  deli- 
cate ethereal  beauty  of  this  bride  of  the  sea.  We  were 
aroused  from  our  rapt  contemplation  of  the  scene 
before  us  by  the  bustle  and  commotion  of  the  arrival 
of  the  train  and  questions  about  luggage,  hotels,  and 
the  proper  fees  to  be  given  to  the  men  who  pushed  our 
gondola  off  from  the  landing.  If  ever  trunks  are 
endurable  it  is  when,  as  in  Venice,  one  glides  away 
with  them  in  a  gondola  over  summer  seas. 

There  was  some  sort  of  a  celebration  last  night, 
something  special,  I  mean,  for  Venice  must  always 
appear  more  or  less  en  fete.  When  we  stepped  into  a 
gondola  after  dinner,  the  many  boats  with  their  gay 
pennons  of  all  colors  and  the  skiffs  with  their  rich 
brown  and  yellow  sails  made  the  Grand  Canal  appear 

273 


HAPS  AND   HAPPENINGS 


like  a  carnival  of  nations.  And  what  a  background 
for  a  carnival  is  the  Canalazzo,  as  the  Venetians  call 
it,  with  its  long  vista  of  palaces,  their  pali  painted  in 
various  colors,  the  Dogana  surmounted  by  its  curious 
weathercock,  Fortune,  aptly  typifying  the  vicissitudes 
of  Venice,  Santa  Maria  della  Salute  glowing  in  the 
evening  light  with  the  shades  of  a  bride  rose,  San 
Giorgio  of  a  deep  red,  the  Doge 's  Palace  with  its  long, 
low  water-front,  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  spanning  the 
dark  canal  that  lies  between  a  palace  and  a  prison, 
and  out  on  the  open  Piazzetta  the  two  huge  granite 
pillars  which  we  see  in  so  many  pictures!  One  of 
these  pillars  is  surmounted  by  the  statue  of  St.  Theo- 
dore, an  ancient  and  now  deposed  patron  saint  of 
Venice,  the  other  by  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark,  eager, 
watchful,  dominant,  clearly  defined  against  the  blue 
of  the  sky — for  here  the  twilight  lasts  long,  and  far 
into  the  night  the  sky  is  of  an  exquisite,  translucent 
blue  such  as  one  usually  sees  far  north,  much  farther 
north  than  Venice.  This  is  a  part  of  the  atmospheric 
charm,  which  makes  it  as  impossible  to  describe  this 
city  of  pearl  and  opaline  tints  and  golden  and  crimson 
glows  as  it  is  to  put  the  colors  of  a  sunset  on  paper. 
Later  the  moon  rose,  and  we  floated  over  a  silver  sea, 
while  strains  of  music,  the  cries  of  the  gondoliers,  and 
the  songs  of  pleasure-parties  were  wafted  to  us  across 

273 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


the  water.  Zelphine's  eyes  shone  with  rapturous 
delight ;  the  excitement  of  the  stimulating  air  and  the 
beauty  of  the  scene  sent  the  red  blood  to  Angela's 
cheeks  until  they  flushed  to  as  deep  a  rose  as  under 
the  fire  of  the  Count  de  B. 's  most  extravagant  com- 
pliments, and  I — well,  I  have  no  idea  of  how  I  looked, 
I  only  know  that  I  felt  as  if  every  craving  for  beauty 
that  I  had  known  in  all  my  life  was  satisfied  entirely. 
Miss  Morris,  who  had  already  experienced  her  first 
thrills  of  delight  "  upon  such  a  night  as  this," 
watched  us  in  silence  and  we  were  thus  spared  the  dis- 
traction of  voluble  enthusiasm;  of  deep,  restrained 
enthusiasm  there  was  quite  enough  for  one  gondola. 

May  27th. 

We  are  lodged  in  a  pleasant,  airy  hotel  on  the  Grand 
Canal  where  it  begins  to  widen  out  toward  the  sea,  and 
opposite  the  Island  of  San  Giorgio  Maggiore.  This 
hotel  is  not  absolutely  in  the  canal,  like  most  of  the 
houses  of  this  "  water-logged  town,"  as  some  Western 
traveller  dubbed  it,  but  has  a  strip  of  pavement  in 
front,  just  enough  dry  land  to  make  us  realize  that  we 
still  belong  to  the  earth.  On  general  principles  I 
should  say  that  the  Venetians  never  sleep,  for  over 
the  stone  flagging  between  our  hotel  and  the  Canalazzo 
people  are  tramping  all  night,  laughing,  chatting,  and 

274 


HAPS  AND   HAPPENINGS 


singing.  And  we,  in  sympathy  with  them,  sit  by  the 
windows  for  hours,  feeling  that  the  nights  are  too 
radiantly  beautiful  to  be  devoted  to  so  prosaic  a  busi- 
ness as  sleeping,  which,  as  Angela  remarks,  "  can  be 
done  in  any  old  place."  The  child  has  so  consid- 
erately refrained  from  having  "  the  time  of  her  life  " 
in  Italy  and  from  measuring  things  generally  by 
' '  galores, ' '  that  we  occasionally  allow  her  to  indulge 
in  an  innocent  bit  of  slang. 

May  28th. 

Our  days  glide  by  as  swiftly  as  those  of  the  "  pil- 
grim stranger  "  in  the  hymn  that  we  used  to  sing  at 
Sunday  School.  We  spend  our  mornings  in  churches 
or  at  the  Accademia,  revelling  in  the  gorgeous  can- 
vases of  Tintoretto,  Titian,  Paul  Veronese,  and  Car- 
paccio.  The  color  in  Carpaccio's  Presentation  of 
Christ  in  the  Temple  is  beautiful,  and  as  vivid  as  if  it 
had  been  painted  yesterday,  quite  equal  to  Ghirlan- 
dajo's  in  his  Adoration  of  the  Magi,  which  we  saw  at 
the  Foundling  Hospital  in  Florence.  The  Child  in 
Carpaccio's  Presentation  is  a  happy,  smiling  human 
baby,  and  the  three  little  angels  playing  upon  musical 
instruments  are  charming.  The  most  fascinating  of 
these  cherubs,  however,  are  in  Giovanni  Bellini's 
Madonnas  at  the  Church  of  the  Redentore  and  at  the 
Frari.  Zelphine  has  bought  a  dozen  photographs  of 

275 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


her  favorite  cherub  in  the  picture  in  which  the 
Madonna  holds  the  sleeping  Babe  upon  her  lap,  while 
the  two  darling  cherubs  play  to  him  on  mandolins. 
The  little  fellow  on  the  right  is  not  as  pretty  and 
chubby  as  his  brother ;  but  to  prevent  jealousy  between 
the  two  I  have  bought  some  of  his  pictures  for  my  col- 
lection. 

Of  course  we  spend  many  hours  in  and  around  St. 
Mark's,  for,  like  the  bride  of  the  Scriptures,  this 
church  is  beautiful  within  and  without.  The  day  after 
our  arrival,  on  our  way  home  from  the  Posta  and  the 
Rialto,  through  the  Merceria,  a  part  of  Venice  in 
which  one  may  really  walk  a  considerable  distance, 
we  suddenly  stepped  into  the  Piazza  of  San  Marco, 
with  its  fluttering  pigeons,  its  arcades,  its  Clock-tower, 
and  at  the  end  the  marvellous  facade  of  the  church, 
rich  in  color,  its  gilded  mosaics  glittering  in  the  sun 
and  the  "  glorious  team  of  horses  "  dashing  toward 
us.  Since  then,  wherever  we  may  be  going,  we  always 
seem  to  cross  the  Square  of  St.  Mark,  and  by  sunlight 
or  twilight  or  moonlight,  or  even  electric  light,  by 
which  we  saw  San  Marco  last  night  when  we  went  to 
Florian's  for  ices,  it  is  always  bewilderingly  beautiful. 
Rich  and  varied,  "  gorgeous  in  the  wild,  luxurious 
fancies  of  the  East,"  is  St.  Mark's;  almost  too  gor- 
geous it  would  be,  had  not  time  softened  and  mellowed 

276 


HAPS  AND   HAPPENINGS 


its  vivid  colors,  and  if  its  setting  were  not  against  a 
sea  and  sky  of  surpassing  brilliancy. 

Our  afternoons  and  evenings  are  spent  on  the  water 
or  at  the  Lido,  where  we  have  tea  in  the  garden,  or 
with  one  of  our  Philadelphia  friends  who  has  a  cabin, 
after  the  Venetian  fashion,  on  this  narrow  strip  of 
land  that  runs  out  into  the  ocean.  It  is  hot  now  at 
mid-day,  and  one  needs  to  keep  out  of  the  sun  between 
the  hours  of  one  and  four;  but  after  that  there  is 
usually  a  breeze  and  always  coolness  at  the  Lido. 

We  spent  some  hours  to-day  in  the  Palazzo  Rez- 
zonico,  which  now  belongs  to  Mr.  Robert  Barrett 
Browning.  One  large  room  on  the  second  floor  is  filled 
with  furniture  and  pictures  from  the  Casa  Guidi  in 
Florence,  among  other  things  Mrs.  Browning's  little 
table  upon  which  she  wrote  her  songs  for  Italy,  and 
her  small,  old-fashioned,  green  leather  writing-desk, 
which  looked  as  if  she  had  left  it  but  yesterday,  with 
pen  and  paper  and  some  pressed  flowers  inside.  On 
one  side  of  the  room,  toward  the  canal,  in  a  recess  in 
the  wall,  is  a  little  shrine  that  the  poet 's  son  has  placed 
here  in  memory  of  his  mother.  In  gold  letters  on  a 
white  ground  are  the  well-known  lines  from  the  tablet 
upon  the  Casa  Guidi. 

The  poet  Browning  spent  the  last  weeks  of  his  life 
in  a  suite  of  rooms  on  the  lower  floor  of  the  Palazzo 

277 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


Rezzonico,  and  here  he  died,  which  fact  is  recorded 
upon  a  tablet  on  the  outside  wall.  We  stopped  to 
reread  the  inscription  upon  the  gray  palace  wall.  A 
young  girl  who  was  with  her  mother  in  a  gondola 
quite  near  was  reading  aloud  in  English  the  Italian 
words  upon  the  tablet,  ' '  Robert  Browning  died  in  this 
house,  December  12,  1889,"  and  the  impressive  and 
quite  untranslatable  "  Venezia  pose."  With  a  ques- 
tioning look  at  us  she  repeated  the  familiar  lines  from 
"DeGustibus": 

"  Open  my  heart  and  you  will  see, 

Graven  inside  of  it,  '  Italy/  " 
adding,  "  But  I  don't  see  where  the  poetry  comes  in." 

Although  Zelphine,  amiable  as  she  is,  is  quite  capa- 
ble of  withering  and  shrivelling  with  a  glance  any  one 
who  speaks  slightingly  of  Robert  Browning's  poetry, 
she  turned  to  the  girl  and  said  quite  pleasantly,  ' '  No, 
there  are  no  rhymes  or  jingles,  only  the  deep  thought 
of  a  great  poet  who  loved  Italy  truly." 

' '  Oh, ' '  exclaimed  the  girl,  ' '  I  did  not  understand. ' ' 

"  Evidently,"  said  Zelphine,  as  we  rowed  out  into 
the  Grand  Canal,  "  and  for  the  same  reason  that 
Kipling's  girl  of  '  the  rag  and  the  bone  and  the  hank 
of  hair  '  did  not  understand. ' ' 

"We  really  should  have  become  used  to  people  who 
do  not  understand,  we  meet  so  many  of  them. 

278 


HAPS  AND    HAPPENINGS 


RIVA  SAN  LOREXZO,  VERONA, 

Sunday,  June  5th. 

You  will  be  surprised  to  learn  that  we  have  quitted 
our  beloved  Venice,  and  quite  suddenly,  which  is,  I 
believe,  the  only  way  that  we  could  have  disentangled 
ourselves  from  the  allurements  of  that  fairy  city.  In 
the  last  week  quite  a  number  of  our  friends  arrived 
from  Florence  and  elsewhere,  and  there  have  been 
afternoon  teas  at  the  Lido  and  at  Mrs.  Allen's  little 
apartment  on  the  Grand  Canal  nearly  opposite  the 
palace  of  his  superseded  majesty,  Don  Carlos  of  Spain, 
water-parties  every  night,  and  just  as  we  were  step- 
ping into  a  gondola  yesterday  morning,  en  route  for 
Padua,  a  note  was  handed  to  Zelphine  containing  a 
charming  invitation  from  Mrs.  B.,  to  take  tea  and 
spend  the  afternoon  with  her  at  the  Palazzino  Tasso. 
She  has  been  at  Borca  in  the  Dolomites  for  a  fort- 
night, and  wrote  that  she  would  be  at  home  in  time  to 
receive  us  on  Monday  afternoon.  So  you  see  how  diffi- 
cult it  was  for  us  to  get  away  from  this  fascinating 
place ;  but  having  planned  to  take  this  little  giro  with 
Miss  Morris,  we  set  our  faces  resolutely  westward. 

We  spent  a  day  at  Padua,  which  is  on  the  way  to 
Verona,  as  there  are  some  frescoes  by  Mantegna, 
Titian,  Giotto,  and  Palma  Vecchio  that  Miss  Morris 
was  particularly  anxious  to  see.  Our  visit  to  the 

279 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


Basilica  of  St.  Anthony  of  Padua,  which  with  its 
seven  domes  is  larger  than  San  Marco,  was  not  entirely 
satisfactory,  as  a  high  mass  was  being  celebrated 
before  the  altar  above  which  are  the  Donatello 
bronzes,  and  we  were  obliged  to  return  in  the  after- 
noon or  give  up  all  thought  of  seeing  those  superb 
reliefs.  At  the  Scuola  del  Carmine  we  were  abund- 
antly compensated  for  all  other  disappointments,  as 
here  we  found  a  series  of  frescoes  representing  events 
in  the  life  of  the  parents  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  as 
realistic  in  design  and  as  frank  in  execution  as  the 
Giotto  paintings  in  Assisi.  We  wondered  in  what  fer- 
tile brain  had  originated  the  pathetic  story  here  repre- 
sented by  Giotto  and  his  pupils.  Miss  Morris  says 
that  she  intends  to  look  up  the  story  of  Joachim  and 
Anna  in  the  lives  of  the  saints,  assuring  us  that  we 
shall  find  a  continuation  of  their  domestic  trials  and 
experiences  on  the  walls  of  the  Brera  at  Milan.  Xo 
frescoes  except  those  at  Assisi  have  interested  us  as 
much  as  these,  not  on  account  of  their  beauty,  but  for 
their  human  feeling.  These  early  Paduan  masters 
treated  sacred  subjects  with  realistic  simplicity  and 
yet  with  perfect  reverence  and  devotional  spirit. 

On  the  piazza  of  the  Cappella  San  Giorgio  is  Dona- 
tello 's   fine   bronze   statue   of    General    Gattamelata. 

This  statue,  the  Marcus  Aurelius  in  Rome,  and  the 

280 


HAPS  AND    HAPPENINGS 


Colleoni  in  Venice  are  considered  the  greatest  eques- 
trian statues  in  the  world.  Beautiful  as  is  this  Gatta- 
melata,  which  possesses  all  the  spirit  and  grace  of 
Donatello,  it  does  not  compare  with  the  Colleoni.  No 
man  of  bronze  or  marble  ever  sat  his  horse  with  the 
strength  and  ease  with  which  the  grand,  dominant 
figure  of  the  Italian  condottiere  sits  his  superb 
charger  and  rides  out  boldly  into  space.  Miss  Morris 
says  that  we  may  be  pleased  to  know  that  Mr.  Euskin 
quite  agreed  with  us  about  the  Colleoni. 

As  Verona  is  only  a  two  hours '  ride  from  Padua,  we 
reached  here  in  time  to  gain  a  general  view  of  its  fine 
old  sculptured  buildings,  arches,  and  bridges,  and  to 
see  in  the  glow  of  sunset  Diocletian's  famous  amphi- 
theatre, which  looks  almost  as  large  as  the  Coliseum 
and  is  more  complete,  as  its  stones  have  not  been 
carted  off  so  ruthlessly  for  the  building  of  palaces. 

This  morning  we  saw  the  Casa  di  Romeo  and  the 
balconied  home  of  Giulietta,  sorry-looking  abodes  for 
youth  and  beauty  such  as  theirs,  although  some  of  the 
carvings  on  these  old  buildings  and  the  exterior  fres- 
coes still  suggest  bygone  grandeur.  A  beautiful  out- 
side stairway  in  the  Piazza  dei  Signori  near  the  Scali- 
ger  tombs  so  charmed  Miss  Morris  that  she  stopped  to 
sketch  it,  while  we  visited  the  cathedral  and  several 

churches. 

281 


ITALIAN  DAYS   AND  WAYS 


We  are  now  sitting  upon  a  balcony — the  place  of  all 
others  to  sit  upon  a  balcony,  even  if  there  is  not  a 
Romeo  in  sight — listening  to  the  song  of  the  rushing 
Adige  which  flows  beneath  us,  and  looking  out  upon 
the  mountains  beyond.  Zelphine  and  I  are  writing, 
while  Miss  Morris  and  Angela  make  water-color 
sketches  of  the  scene  before  us,  and  try  to  get  on 
their  brushes  some  of  the  soft,  rich  shades  of  brown 
and  yellew  that  time  and  the  light  of  the  setting  sun 
have  given  to  the  ancient  palace  of  the  Scaligers  and 
to  the  fourteenth-century  bridge  that  spans  the  river 
a  short  distance  from  this  hotel.  On  the  terrace 
beneath  our  balcony  some  Italians  are  dining  and 
chatting  gaily.  When  the  lovely  sunset  glow  has  quite 
faded  out  and  the  evening  light  has  deepened  to  twi- 
light, we  shall  join  them  and  dine  al  fresco. 

To-morrow  we  take  a  train  for  Milan,  that  is,  if 
the  sketches  are  satisfactory ;  if  not,  we  may  stay  here 
another  day. 

HOTEL  DE  L 'EUROPE,  June  7th. 

Instead  of  writing  to  you  from  Milan,  I  am  sending 
you  another  letter  from  Venice.  A  strange  thing 
happened  yesterday,  or,  rather,  two  strange  things 
have  happened.  Zelphine  came  to  my  room  at  the  Riva 
San  Lorenzo  late  on  Sunday  night,  her  face  wearing 
the  anxious  look  that  betokens  an  uneasy  mind. 

282 


HAPS  AND   HAPPENINGS 


'  What  is  the  matter,  Zelphine?  "  I  asked.  "  You 
look  as  if  you  were  trying  to  make  up  your  mind." 
We  have  long  since  decided  that  this  is  the  mental 
process  that  is  most  wearing  to  the  brain  of  the  trav- 
eller, and  I  was  not  surprised  when  she  said,  "  Yes, 
that  is  the  trouble.  I  have  attempted  three  separate 
times  to  answer  Emily  B.'s  note,  and  I  simply  can- 
not do  it. ' ' 

"  Oh,  I  took  for  granted  that  you  had  mailed  that 
note  on  Saturday  evening." 

"  No,  Margaret,  I  have  never  written  it  at  all. 
The  truth  is,  I  want  to  see  Mrs.  B.  so  much  that  I 
have  almost  decided  to  return  to  Venice  to-morrow, 
instead  of  going  on  to  Milan. ' ' 

"  That  is  rather  against  your  principles,  Zelphine, 
you  are  so  much  opposed  to  doubling  journeys  and 
retracing  steps,"  I  said,  trying  to  appear  judicial  in 
my  tone,  although  I  was  delighted  at  the  idea  of 
returning  to  Venice,  even  for  an  afternoon. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Zelphine,  quite  penitently, 
"  but  I  may  not  soon  again  have  a  chance  of  seeing 
Emily  B.  I  could  meet  you  in  Milan  in  a  day  or  two. ' ' 

' '  No,  Zelphine, ' '  I  said,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  con- 
fers a  distinguished  favor,  "  I  will  go  back  to  Venice 
with  you.  Angela  may  prefer  to  stay  here,  if  Miss 

Morris  remains." 

283 


ITALIAN  DAYS    AND  WAYS 


"  Angela  will  go  with  you,"  said  our  youngest, 
opening  her  door,  which  was  scarcely  necessary,  as 
the  transom  was  already  open.  ' '  There  is  a  blue  neck- 
lace in  one  of  those  fascinating  shops  up  on  the  piazza 
near  the  Clock-tower  that  I  have  been  regretting  ever 
since  we  left  Venice.  I  thought  it  would  be  an  extrav- 
agance to  buy  it,  but  nothing  is  extravagant  when  you 
want  it  so  much,  and  when  this  is  the  very  last 
chance  to  get  it. ' ' 

"  Nothing,"  said  Zelphine,  laughing  at  Angela's 
comforting  sophistry,  "  when  your  father's  purse  is 
always  ready  to  honor  your  demands  upon  it.  But 
what  will  Miss  Morris  say?  " 

That  lady  came  to  her  door  as  if  in  answer  to  Zel- 
phine's  question,  saying,  "  I  have  been  wishing  that 
I  had  bought  another  of  the  pretty  lace  collars  that 
they  are  positively  giving  away  in  one  of  the  little 
shops  opposite  the  Church  of  San  Zaccaria.  I  shall 
not  return  to  buy  it,  but  will  commission  Angela  to 
bring  it  to  Milan  for  me." 

With  so  many  good  reasons  for  returning  to  Venice, 
I  am  sure  that  you  will  agree  with  me  in  thinking  that 
it  would  have  been  flying  in  the  face  of  Providence 
and  turning  our  backs  upon  the  gifts  of  the  gods  not 
to  have  retraced  our  steps. 

I  must  confess  to  a  positive  thrill  of  delight  when  I 
284 


HAPS  AND    HAPPENINGS 


again  beheld  the  shining  water-ways  of  Venice.  Even 
the  great  warehouses,  with  their  heaps  of  gorgeous 
dyes  and  stuffs,  have  a  picturesqueness  of  their  own; 
the  palaces,  no  matter  how  dilapidated  they  may  be, 
stand  out  rich  and  sumptuous  in  the  sunshine;  lux- 
uriant vines  depend  from  their  balconies  and  drape 
the  seamed  and  cracked  walls ;  great  barges  heavy  with 
their  golden  freight  of  fruit  and  melons  go  by;  and 
ever  on  the  steps  are  the  children,  "  those  untiring 
spectators  of  life."  Why  those  children  playing  on 
the  very  edge  of  doom  do  not  all  come  to  an  untimely 
end  no  man  knows.  The  very  small  children  are  often 
fastened  by  a  strap  to  the  arm  of  the  mother  or  grand- 
mother, who  knits  placidly  while  her  nursling  plays  on 
the  steps  near  the  water ;  but  for  those  little  boys  who 
hop  in  and  out  of  boats  and  hang  over  the  piers  as 
they  gaze  into  the  canals  there  must  be  an  especially 
detailed  guardian  angel — the  same,  probably,  who 
saved  Mr.  Cross  from  instant  death  when  he  fell  into 
the  Grand  Canal.  By  the  way,  we  are  stopping  at  the 
Hotel  de  1 'Europe,  where  he  and  George  Eliot  spent 
their  honeymoon,  and  where  this  accident  occurred 
which  might  have  ended  so  tragically.  You  may 
remember  that  at  the  time  there  was  some  foolish  talk 
about  suicide;  but  we,  who  stand  on  these  balconies 
and  terraces  overhanging  the  water,  realize  that 

285 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


drowning  and  suicidal  intent  do  not  need  to  go  hand 
in  hand  in  Venice. 

Our  afternoon  at  the  Palazzino  Tasso  was  delight- 
ful. We  had  tea  and  much  pleasant  conversation 
with  Mrs.  B.,  in  her  pretty  drawing-room.  As  she 
has  lived  long  in  Venice,  and  in  consequence  of  her 
own  literary  connections  has  met  most  of  the  writers 
who  have  come  here,  she  had  many  pleasant  and  amus- 
ing recollections  to  relate  of  the  Storys,  Mr.  Browning, 
and  many  other  great  folk. 

We  were  afterwards  taken  into  the  large  garden, 
where  dear  old-fashioned  pinks  and  tall  annunciation 
lilies  filled  the  air  with  delicious  fragrance.  Mrs.  B. 
generously  broke  off  for  us  great  heads  of  lily-blooms, 
which  wre  carried  off  with  us,  sweet  mementos  of  an 
afternoon  that  was  wrell  worth  coming  back  to  Venice 
for. 

As  we  drew  near  our  hotel  we  noticed  on  the  terrace 
a  portly  figure  that  had  a  familiar  look,  as  it  stood 
there  silhouetted  against  the  facade  of  the  Europe.  A 
strange  light  shone  from  Zelphine's  eyes;  but  it  was 
Angela  who  broke  the  silence  by  exclaiming,  "  That 
gentleman  on  the  landing  really  looks  like  Mr.  Leon- 
ard! " 

' '  It  is  Mr.  Leonard, ' '  I  said,  as  we  drew  nearer,  and 
thus  we  recognized  him  first,  although  he  was  waiting 

286 


HAPS  AND    HAPPENINGS 


there  for  us.  He  naturally  did  not  expect  to  see  a 
gondola  full  of  women  bearing  tall  lily-stalks  in  their 
hands,  looking  for  all  the  world  like  part  of  a  Venetian 
pageant.  The  smile  that  irradiated  Walter  Leonard's 
face,  when  he  finally  recognized  the  three  Botticelli 
ladies  as  those  he  had  come  to  seek,  was  beautiful  to 
behold.  The  mingling  of  surprise  and  delight  on  Zel- 
phine's  face  entirely  exonerated  her  from  any  com- 
plicity in  this  sudden  appearance,  although  Angela 
and  I  chaff  her  unmercifully  about  her  determination 
to  return  to  see  Mrs.  B.,  and  ask  her  if  she  does  not 
believe  more  strongly  than  ever  in  telepathy.  It  was 
a  rather  curious  coincidence,  was  it  not  ?  Yet,  to  quote 
a  very  trite  saying,  ' '  truth  is  stranger  than  fiction. ' ' 

VILLA  D'ESTE,  LAKE  COMO,  June  15tli. 
Since  my  letter  of  June  7th,  telling  you  of  Mr. 
Leonard's  sudden  arrival  in  Venice,  I  have  not  sent 
you  a  line,  not  even  an  announcement  of  the  engage- 
ment which  of  course  soon  followed.  How  or  when  the 
important  affair  was  settled  I  know  not.  I  can  only 
tell  you  that  the  happy  pair  came  to  me  with  shining 
faces  and  asked  for  my  blessing,  which  I  freely  gave. 
Angela  has  so  far  withheld  her  approval  of  the  match, 
and  is  evidently  very  jealous  of  the  "  suitor,"  as  she 
is  pleased  to  call  Mr.  Leonard.  She  had  begun  to  look 

287 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


upon  Zelphine  as  her  particular  property,  and  Mr. 
Leonard's  attempts  to  propitiate  this  unrelenting 
goddess  are  really  quite  pathetic.  He  offers  her 
flowers  every  time  that  he  brings  them  to  Zelphine, 
and  then,  as  he  is  far  too  polite  to  overlook  my  claims 
as  chaperon-in-chief,  I  come  in  for  my  share  of  votive 
offerings. 

Zelphine  is  so  pleased  with  her  own  estate  that  she 
wishes  to  see  all  her  friends  equally  happy.  When 
Angela  is  pale  or  tired,  she  looks  at  her  compassion- 
ately, and  whispers  to  me  that  she  is  evidently  regret- 
ting the  Count  de  B.  If  Angela  regrets  any  one,  it  is 
not  the  Count.  She  has  long  and  frequent  letters  from 
Ludovico,  from  which  she  reads  me  choice  bits,  and 
there  is  always  a  message  for  me.  Angela  and  I  are 
naturally  thrown  very  much  upon  our  own  resources, 
and  the  last  days  in  Venice  would  have  been  rather 
dull  for  her  had  they  not  been  enlivened  by  a  number 
of  entertainments  given  by  our  friends  there  in  honor 
of  the  fidanzati.  At  one  particularly  charming  after- 
noon tea,  at  the  Lido,  Angela  was  so  much  admired  by 
a  young  Italian  that  I  should  have  had  another  Count 
de  B.  affair  on  my  hands  had  we  not  left  Venice  soon 
after.  Zelphine  and  Walter  Leonard  would  have  been 
satisfied  to  stay  on  indefinitely,  spending  their  after- 
noons and  evenings  floating  about  in  gondolas  and 

288 


HAPS  AND    HAPPENINGS 


their  mornings  in  the  shops  buying  presents  for  the 
children  at  home,  whom  the  mamma  elect  has  already 
adopted  with  enthusiasm.  We  were,  however,  fairly 
driven  away  from  Venice  last  week  by  the  heat  and 
the  mosquitoes,  which  are  said  to  be  unusually  ven- 
omous this  year.  "We  have  noticed  that  in  whatever 
place  we  happen  to  be  stopping,  the  disagreeables  are 
always  unusual. 

Having  spent  most  of  the  beautiful  springtime  in 
cities,  we  concluded  to  come  directly  to  this  pretty 
place  on  Lake  Como,  from  whence  we  can  make  day- 
trips  to  Milan,  which  is  only  a  little  over  an  hour  from 
here.  The  Villa  d'Este,  once  a  royal  villa,  now  a 
delightfully  comfortable  hotel,  was  for  some  years  the 
home  of  the  discarded  wife  of  "  the  most  elegant  gen- 
tleman in  Europe."  The  entrance-hall  and  stairways 
are  handsome  and  imposing,  and  the  rooms  spacious 
and  airy.  "We  breakfast  in  the  salle  de  conversation 
and  dine  in  a  great  banqueting-hall.  The  grounds  of 
the  villa  are  quite  extensive,  and  during  her  residence 
here  Queen  Caroline  interested  herself  in  improving 
them  in  every  way,  so  Dr.  A.  tells  me,  for,  to  add  to 
our  pleasure,  my  "  Doctor  Antonio  "  from  San  Remo 
is  spending  the  month  of  June  here.  He  knows  every 
inch  of  this  beautiful  region  and  promises  us  many- 
excursions  in  hi§  motor  car. 

289 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


Picturesque  as  is  the  view  of  the  lake  and  mountains 
from  the  front  piazza  and  terrace,  the  part  of  the 
grounds  that  we  most  enjoy  is  the  hillside  behind  the 
house,  which  abounds  in  mountain  streams  and  cas- 
cades over  which  rustic  bridges  have  been  thrown, 
and  where  many  wildwood  paths  lead  to  vine-covered 
pavilions,  temples  of  love  and  temples  of  fame,  these 
latter  adorned  with  busts  of  distinguished  men — all  so 
odd  and  foreign,  and  so  different  from  our  idea  of 
pleasure-grounds ! 

Adjoining  the  grounds  of  the  Villa  d'Este  are  those 
of  the  Villa  Maximilian,  which  was  the  home  of  the 
unfortunate  Archduke  Maximilian  and  his  wife  dur- 
ing the  early  and  happy  years  of  their  married  life. 
The  estate  now  belongs  to  a  wealthy  Milanese  gentle- 
man, who  has  had  the  good  taste  to  make  few  changes 
in  the  house  and  gardens.  This  afternoon  we  all 
rowed  across  the  lake  to  the  Villa  Pliniana  on  the 
opposite  shore.  This  really  classic  spot  owes  its  name 
to  a  remarkable  spring  of  water  near  by,  which  Pliny 
speaks  of  in  his  letters.  To-morrow  we  expect  to  make 
an  all-day  excursion  to  Bellagio  and  Cadenabbia. 
There  are  so  many  attractive  resorts  on  the  shores  of 
this  lake  that  we  have  not  yet  planned  for  a  day  in 
Milan  at  the  Brera,  whose  wonders  we  hope  to  enjoy 
in  the  good  company  of  Miss  Morris. 

290 


HAPS  AND    HAPPENINGS 


June  17th. 

I  have  a  most  humiliating  confession  to  make :  yes- 
terday, in  getting  off  the  boat  at  this  landing,  I  made 
a  misstep  and  sprained  my  ankle.  It  is  not  a  serious 
affair,  I  fancy,  "  pas  grand  chose,"  as  Dr.  A.  says, 
but  it  is  most  vexatious,  as  we  may  be  obliged  to  stay 
here  for  a  fortnight,  and  we  really  need  a  couple  of 
weeks  in  Paris  to  get  Zelphine's  trousseau  and  make 
other  preparations  for  the  wedding,  which  is  to  be  in 
London  the  second  week  in  July.  I  think  the  groom 
elect  is  secretly  rejoiced  over  this  delay,  although  openly 
most  sympathetic  and  considerate,  as  it  gives  him  a 
longer  time  here  with  Zelphine,  and  really,  if  I  had 
looked  all  over  Europe  for  a  fitting  scene  for  an  acci- 
dent, and  with  a  view  to  lovers,  I  could  not  have  found 
a  more  suitable  place  than  this.  Mr.  Leonard  says 
that  I  apologize  so  abjectly  for  what  is  not  my  fault, 
but  my  misfortune,  that  I  remind  him  of  a  story  that 
Dr.  William  II.  Furness  used  to  tell  of  a  saintly  old 
lady  who  frequently  and  formally  apologized  to  her 
assembled  family  for  being  so  long  a-dying. 

It  is  inglorious,  as  Zelphine  says,  to  have  had  an 
accident  here  that  I  might  much  more  conveniently 
have  had  stepping  off  a  ferry-boat  in  New  York  or 
Brooklyn,  to  which  Angela  adds,  ' '  Yes,  it  would  have 
been  so  much  more  up-to-date  to  have  been  thrown 

291 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


from  an  auto  car,  and  it  would  certainly  have  been 
more  dangerous." 

I  retail  these  bits  of  conversation  to  prove  to  you 
that  my  companions  are  disposed  to  be  patient  and 
even  merry  over  my  misfortune  and  their  delay.  And 
I,  aside  from  the  inconvenience,  have  nothing  to  com- 
plain of.  I  suffer  little  pain,  under  Dr.  A. 's  skilful 
treatment,  and  here  I  am,  laid  up  in  lavender  on  a 
sofa,  in  a  room  so  spacious  and  elegant  that  I  think 
it  must  have  been  Queen  Caroline's  boudoir.  The 
walls  and  ceiling  are  decorated  with  Loves  and  Graces, 
and  the  long  windows  open  out  upon  a  balcony  from 
which  there  is  a  fine  view  of  the  lake  and  the  moun- 
tains beyond.  I  have  more  books  than  I  could  read  in 
a  month,  sent  me  by  the  English  people  in  the  house. 
Zelphine  and  Angela  bring  me  flowers  and  fruits, 
delicious  great  black  cherries  and  a  fruit  unknown  to 
us  which  they  call  nespole.  These  last  I  fear  were 
stolen  from  Maximilian 's  garden,  as  the  nespole  hang 
most  temptingly  over  the  terraces  there. 

Dr.  A.  entertains  me  with  interesting  traditions  of 
the  neighborhood.  This  morning  he  brought  me  an 
old  French  book  which  gives  a  history  of  this  villa, 
which  was  not,  as  I  had  supposed,  a  former  possession 
of  the  princely  house  of  Este,  one  of  whose  villas  we 
saw  at  Tivoli.  The  name  seems  to  have  been  purely 

292 


HAPS  AND    HAPPENINGS 


a  fancy  on  the  part  of  the  Queen.  I  am  to  have  some 
passages  translated  for  my  benefit  from  a  recent  book 
written  by  an  Italian  upon  Queen  Caroline  and  her 
life  at  the  Villa  d'Este. 

"  A  swallow  without  a  nest,  which  for  many  years 
flew  from  city  to  city  in  Europe,  Africa,  and  Asia," 
this  author  calls  the  unhappy  Queen,  upon  which  Dr. 
A.  shrugs  his  shoulders,  and  says  that  bad  as  her  hus- 
band was,  he,  for  his  part,  has  little  admiration  for 
Caroline  of  Brunswick.  I  have  always  entertained 
the  most  profound  sympathy  for  this  unfortunate 
lady,  and  we  naturally  have  animated  discussions  over 
her  rights  and  wrongs.  I  fancy  that  Signer  Clerci  is 
entirely  on  Dr.  A. 's  side  of  the  argument,  otherwise 
he  would  not  so  cheerfully  offer  to  read  me  passages 
about  the  Queen's  life  at  the  Villa  d'Este. 

June  19th. 

Last  evening,  to  our  surprise  and  joy,  Mrs.  Coxe 
arrived.  She  had  learned  that  we  were  here,  and  of 
my  accident,  from  Miss  Morris,  whom  she  met  in 
Milan,  and  came  at  once,  like  the  good  Samaritan  that 
she  is,  to  cheer  and  comfort  me.  Now  that  I  have  so 
agreeable  a  companion,  the  rest  of  my  party  will  not 
hesitate  to  go  to  Milan  for  a  day  at  the  Brera. 

Mrs.  Coxe  is  a  perfect  dear,  and  entertains  me 
293 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


immensely ;  but,  with  all  the  blessings  that  I  have  been 
recounting  to  you,  I  feel  a  bit  homesick  to-night.  Am 
I  not  unreasonable?  The  truth  is,  I  shall  miss  Zel- 
phine  sadly  if  she  and  Mr.  Leonard  sail  in  August  and 
if  Angela  and  I  do  not  return  until  October.  Is  there 
any  chance  of  your  getting  over  to  England  this 
summer?  You  had  better  come  in  time  for  the  wed- 
ding. 


294 


XVIII 
ANGELA'S   LETTER 


VILLA  D'ESTE,  LAKE  COMO,  June  27th. 
DEAE  MAMMA  : 

When  you  next  send  your  only  daughter 
abroad,  I  advise  you  to  choose  for  her  guardians  and 
companions  the  young  and  giddy  rather  than  the 
mature  and  sedate.  Here  am  I,  the  youngest  of  the 
party  and  ' '  the  likeliest, ' '  as  Aunt  Lyddy  would  say, 
in  the  curious  position  of  chaperon  to  my  elders  and 
betters,  which  is  not  easy,  as  I  have  never  learned 
the  art  of  being  in  two  places  at  one  time.  If  it  were 
not  for  Mrs.  Coxe  I  really  do  not  know  what  would 
become  of  me,  as  my  happy  couples  usually  choose  to 
be  in  different  places.  I  generally  attach  myself  to  Z. 
and  Mr.  Leonard,  who  treat  me  with  studied  polite- 
ness, although  I  am  quite  sure  that  they  would  rather 
have  me  in  the  lake  or  anywhere  else  than  just  where 
I  am,  tagging  after  them.  It  seems  more  important 
to  chaperon  Z.  thoroughly,  because  she  attracts  so 
much  attention.  Her  white  hair  and  dark  eyes  always 
give  her  quite  an  air,  and  now,  since  Mr.  Leonard's 

295 


ITALIAN  DAYS   AND  WAYS 

appearance  upon  the  scene,  she  has  dropped  ten  years 
from  her  shoulders  and  developed  into  a  pinkness  and 
whiteness  of  complexion  that  might  cause  grave 
doubts  on  the  part  of  her  chaperon  were  she  not  gen- 
erally in  attendance  at  her  toilet.  Why  Z.  should  be 
any  happier  than  she  was  before  Mr.  Leonard  claimed 
her  for  his  own  I  fail  to  understand.  She  had  every- 
thing that  heart  could  desire — health,  good  looks, 
plenty  of  money,  and  freedom  to  travel  to  the  ends  of 
the  earth  with  Margaret  and  me,  and  the  certainty  that 
she  could  have  Mr.  Leonard  at  her  feet  whenever  she 
wished,  which  Margaret  and  I  think  is  quite  an  ideal 
position  for  a  lover.  If  he  had  not  followed  Z.  over 
here  and  taken  advantage  of  her  being  in  a  strange 
country,  with  no  one  but  two  helpless  women  to  pro- 
tect her,  and  made  love  to  her  in  gondolas  by  moon- 
light, and  sighed  for  her  under  the  Bridge  of  Sighs, 
and  talked  of  their  future  happiness  under  the  Ponte 
del  Paradise  and  other  perfect  places,  I  doubt  whether 
she  would  have  accepted  him,  for  several  years  at 
least — and  then  the  children !  Mrs.  Coxe  says  that  Z. 
had  better  take  all  the  pleasure  she  can  get  out  of  this 
trip,  as  she  will  not  be  able  to  get  away  soon  again, 
with  all  those  children  hanging  around  her.  But  I 
must  tell  you  the  rest  of  the  story,  as  it  is  simply 
thrilling  and  as  good  as  a  novel. 

296 


ANGELA'S    LETTER 


For  some  time  I  have  had  my  suspicions  about  Mar- 
garet. I  told  you  how  sad  and  depressed  she  was 
when  we  sailed,  and  what  an  effort  she  made  to  appear 
cheerful.  I  suppose  she  really  did  care  for  that  Mr. 
Grant,  although  you  and  papa  thought  him  a  rather 
poor  affair  and  not  at  all  worthy  of  her.  In  the  last 
two  months  she  has  been  quite  different,  and  positively 
gay  at  times,  especially  so  on  mail  days.  Z.  and  I  both 
noticed  this,  or,  rather,  Z.  did  notice  it  before  she  gave 
up  her  interest  in  the  things  around  her.  We  didn't 
think  so  much  of  the  long  letters  that  Margaret  was 
always  sending  off  to  Mr.  Ramsay,  because,  as  Z. 
said,  they  were  old  friends,  and  she  was  quite  frank 
about  the  letters  and  assured  us  that  they  were  for  his 
mother 's  entertainment  as  much  as  for  Mr.  Ramsay 's. 
This  sounded  very  nice  and  proper,  and  as  Margaret 
always  seemed  a  truthful  person,  I  believed  her,  and 
so  did  Z.,  but  then  Z.  believes  in  every  one  until  they 
are  proved  to  be  thieves  and  pickpockets.  What  really 
aroused  my  suspicions  was  Margaret 's  absent  manner, 
on  occasions.  Several  times,  when  I  have  come  upon 
her  suddenly,  sitting  in  one  of  the  romantic  seats  up 
on  Queen  Caroline's  terrace,  with  a  book  in  her  lap 
and  her  eyes  gazing  off  into  space,  she  has  started, 
blushed,  and  begun  to  read  her  book  diligently.  This 
was  of  course  before  the  accident.  Since  then  she  has 

297 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


been  in  a  constant  state  of  apology  for  keeping  us  here 
so  long,  and  spends  her  days  studying  maps  and 
guide-books  to  find  out  how  fast  we  can  travel  when 
we  are  once  fairly  started.  Mr.  Leonard  and  Z.  both 
assure  her  that  they  could  not  be  happier  anywhere 
else,  and  their  looks  certainly  do  not  belie  their  words ; 
and  I  tell  her  that  nothing  could  please  me  better  than 
to  stay  in  this  lovely,  cool  place,  where  we  may  make 
a  new  excursion  every  day,  and  Dr.  A.  is  always  ready 
to  take  me  in  his  motor  car  if  only  Z.  and  Mr.  Leonard 
will  sit  in  the  back  of  the  car  to  do  propriety.  He 
seems  to  forget  that  I  am  chaperoning  them;  but  it 
really  doesn't  make  any  difference  so  long  as  the  pro- 
prieties are  attended  to — you  know  how  much  more 
exacting  they  are  over  here  than  at  home. 

Count  B.'s  ideas  of  propriety  used  to  amuse  us  so 
much  when  we  were  in  Florence.  He  would  pay  me 
compliments  by  the  yard  about  my  cheeks  and  my 
hair,  speeches  that  we  should  think  rather  bad  form 
at  home,  and  yet  when  he  was  walking  with  me,  he 
would  never  by  any  chance  go  out  of  Margaret's  or 
Z.  's  sight.  At  first  this  made  me  feel  uncomfortable, 
as  if  he  really  was  afraid  that  I  should  do  or  say 
something  improper.  Ludovico  Baldini,  who  has  been 
in  America  long  enough  to  know  something  of  our 
ways,  was  much  amused  when  I  said  this,  but  insisted 

298 


ANGELA'S    LETTER 


that  the  Count  was  quite  right,  as  a  jeune  fille  must 
be  rigidly  shadowed  by  her  chaperon  on  the  Con- 
tinent. 

Dr.  A.  is  a  really  delightful  person.  "We  generally 
call  him  "  Doctor  Antonio,"  because  he  reminds  Mar- 
garet of  the  Doctor  in  that  queer,  old,  deadly  romantic 
novel  that  you  are  so  fond  of,  and  then  his  Italian 
name  is  so  difficult  to  twist  around  our  American 
tongues!  He  and  Mrs.  Coxe  have  an  occasional  tilt, 
which  helps  to  liven  us  up.  She  is  perfectly  dear  and 
the  best  fun  in  the  world,  but  she  is  a  bit  bossy,  all 
the  same,  and  sets  up  her  opinion  against  the  Doc- 
tor's, because,  as  she  is  so  fond  of  saying,  "  Having 
brought  up  a  family  of  eight  children,  of  course  I 
know  more  than  these  young  physicians." 

Yesterday  when  Dr.  A.  had  Margaret  out  on  the 
terrace  in  a  rolling  chair,  he  said,  "  To-morrow  we 
will  have  a  little  turn  in  the  auto  car. ' '  To  this  Mrs. 
Coxe  objected  quite  decidedly,  said  that  it  was  mad- 
ness to  attempt  so  much  exertion,  etc.  The  Doctor 
listened  to  all  that  she  had  to  say,  with  the  most 
angelic  patience,  and  when  she  was  suddenly  called 
away  to  receive  a  visitor,  Margaret  smiled,  and  said 
quite  apologetically,  "It  is  quite  evident,  Dr.  A., 
that  Mrs.  Coxe  is  the  daughter  of  a  major-general." 

"  Yes,  yes!  "  exclaimed  Dr.  A.,  shrugging  his  shoul- 

299 


ITALIAN   DAYS   AND  WAYS 


ders.  "  I  quite  understand.  I  knew  the  daughters  of 
General  Garibaldi,  and  they  were  just  the  same." 

"  And,"  said  Margaret,  "  we  shall  have  our  trip  in 
the  auto  car?  " 

' '  Yes,  yes,  I  never  allow  any  one  to  interfere  with 
my  practice." 

"  Even  the  mother  of  eight  grown  children,  all 
well  brought  up  ?  " 

The  Doctor  is  bright  and  quick  at  catching  on  to 
our  little  jokes  and  asides.  I  like  him  so  much  that  I 
had  almost  made  up  my  mind  to  Margaret 's  marrying 
a  foreigner,  when — but  I  must  not  run  ahead  of  my 
story,  and  of  course  I  have  no  reason  to  think  that 
he  has  asked  her  to  marry  him. 

This  afternoon  (it  really  seems  as  if  two  whole 
weeks  had  passed  since  yesterday)  Dr.  A.  said  that  he 
thought  Margaret  could  stand  the  ride  to  Varese, 
which  is  about  eighteen  miles  from  Como.  We  were 
all  delighted,  and  after  dejeuner  we  set  forth  in  gay 
good  spirits,  Margaret  on  the  front  seat  with  Dr.  A. 
and  I  behind  with  Zelphine  and  Mr.  Leonard. 

Our  way  lay  through  a  fine  farming  country  with 
fertile  fields  and  bits  of  woodland  here  and  there, 
quite  different  from  the  rocky  hillsides  covered  with 
grape-vines  and  olives  that  we  have  seen  so  much  of  all 
through  Italy.  The  roads  are  fine,  and  a  rush  through 

300 


ANGELA'S   LETTER 


the  fresh  air  is  so  intoxicating  to  me,  as  you  know, 
that  even  the  company  of  two  lovers,  so  absorbed  in 
each  other  that  they  probably  did  not  know  whether 
they  were  in  Italy  or  in  Ireland,  was  quite  powerless 
to  take  off  the  keen  edge  of  my  enjoyment,  beside 
which  I  could  talk  to  Margaret  and  Dr.  A.,  who 
pointed  out  all  the  places  of  interest  to  us  as  we  spec! 
along.  We  did  not  stop  in  the  town  of  Varese,  as 
the  Grand  Hotel  on  Lake  Varese  was  our  destination. 
Here  we  sat  out  in  the  garden  overlooking  the  lake, 
with  a  fine  view  of  the  whole  chain  of  the  Western 
Alps  spread  before  us,  "  a  fine  panorama,"  as  the 
Doctor  calls  it.  We  had  tea  on  the  terrace  and  enjoyed 
ourselves  generally,  Dr.  A.  and  Mr.  Leonard  trying 
which  could  tell  the  most  amusing  stories. 

We  flew  home  from  Varese  on  the  wings  of  the  wind, 
far  faster  than  we  made  the  trip  there,  and  as  we 
drew  up  before  the  villa,  Margaret  laughing  and  talk- 
ing to  Dr.  A.,  by  far  the  gayest  of  the  party,  whom 
should  we  see  standing  on  the  piazza  but  Mr.  Ramsey ! 

Such  a  curious  expression  crossed  his  face  when  he 
saw  Margaret — surprise,  wonder,  something  like  pain ; 
and  she  grew  so  pale  that  I  expected  her  to  faint  the 
next  minute.  Dr.  A.  whisked  a  bottle  of  something 
out  of  his  pocket  and  called  for  water  and  gave  Mar- 
garet some  drops,  all  in  such  a  professional  manner 

301 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 

that  Mr.  Ramsay's  spirits  revived  as  quickly  as  if  he 
had  taken  the  dose  himself,  and  by  the  time  the  invalid 
was  ready  to  get  out  of  the  car  both  their  faces  were 
as  red  as  peonies.  The  Doctor  and  Mr.  Ramsay  then 
shook  hands  in  a  friendly  manner,  which  was  a  relief 
to  my  mind,  as  for  the  first  few  minutes  visions  of 
pistols  and  coffee  at  five  o  'clock  in  the  morning  floated 
through  my  brain.  They  really  did  glare  at  each  other 
at  first.  As  they  helped  Margaret  out  very  carefully, 
a  question  suddenly  occurred  to  me:  how  did  Mr. 
Ramsay  know  anything  about  the  sprained  ankle? 
Papa  always  said  that  I  would  make  a  good  detective. 
I  turned  suddenly  to  Mr.  Leonard  with  my  question. 
From  his  confused  and  unsatisfactory  answer,  and  a 
quizzical  look  in  his  eyes  when  he  met  Mr.  Ramsay's, 
I  am  almost  certain  that  there  has  been  some  collusion 
between  the  two.  I  have  been  counting  the  days  since 
Margaret's  accident,  and  I  find  that  Mr.  Ramsay 
sailed  two  days  after  it.  He  took  a  fast  steamer  and 
landed  at  Southampton,  all  of  which  confirms  me  in 
my  suspicion  that  Mr.  Leonard  sent  him  a  cablegram. 
You  don't  approve  of  betting,  mammy  dear,  but  I  am 
quite  willing  to  wager  my  new  Leghorn  hat,  which 
Margaret  says  is  very  becoming,  against  Z.  's  fine  pearl 
necklace,  that  Mr.  Leonard  gave  her,  that  he  had  a 
hand  in  this,  having  learned  by  experience  that  sud- 

302 


ANGELA'S   LETTER 


den  appearances  are  sometimes  the  most  satisfactory 
ways  of  settling  difficulties  of  long  standing.  I  shall 
probably  know  all  about  this  some  day,  and  whatever 
Mr.  Leonard  did  or  did  not  do,  he  will  doubtless  be 
forgiven,  as  from  present  appearances  I  should  say 
that  Margaret  is  incapable  of  cherishing  anger  against 
any  living  thing. 

June  30th. 

And  now,  dearest  mammy,  what  do  you  think  of 
my  two  frisky  chaperons,  who  planned  this  trip  for 
their  own  improvement  and  mine  ? 

There  is  to  be  a  double  wedding,  of  course.  Z.'s 
date  is  postponed  until  some  time  later  in  July;  as 
soon  as  the  happy  day  is  named  I  will  let  you  know. 

Before  I  close  this  long  letter  I  must  tell  you  of  the 
wedding  journey  that  Margaret  and  Mr.  Ramsay  are 
planning — nothing  less  sentimental  than  to  come  back 
to  Italy  and  visit  all  the  places  that  she  has  been  writ- 
ing about  in  her  letters.  They,  the  places,  will  not 
look  half  so  pretty  in  the  autumn  as  in  the  spring,  but 
that  won't  make  much  difference  to  them.  If  they 
invite  me  very  cordially,  I  may  go  with  them.  You 
see,  I  shall  be  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  tagging  on  to 
one  of  these  couples,  or  of  marrying  some  one  myself 
for  the  sake  of  having  a  travelling  companion,  unless 
you  and  papa  come  over  here  and  look  after  me  a  bit. 

303 


ITALIAN   DAYS  AND  WAYS 

Another  reason  for  your  coming:  there  is  no  proper 
person  to  give  Margaret  away.  Mrs.  Coxe  says  that  I 
shall  have  to  do  it,  as  the  dignified  chaperon  of  the 
party.  I  really  think  that  this  and  my  unprotected 
position  are  sufficient  reasons  for  papa 's  coming  to  the 
wedding,  so  make  your  plans,  like  a  dear,  and  work 
papa  up  to  the  starting-point.  Dr.  Vernon  is  to  join 
us  in  Paris,  so  Z.  will  be  given  away  by  her  natural 
protector. 

Mrs.  Coxe  is  going  up  to  London  for  the  wedding, 
and  I  am  quite  certain  that  Margaret's  young  Italian 
friend,  Ludovico  Baldini,  will  be  there,  and  perhaps 
the  Marquis  de  B. — who  knows?  I  for  one  do  not. 

Margaret's  ankle  is  almost  well;  she  walked  the 
length  of  the  piazza  to-day,  with  the  Doctor  on  one 
side  and  Mr.  Kamsay  on  the  other.  The  Doctor  is 
delighted  with  the  improvement  in  his  patient,  and  yet 
he  looks  quite  serious  when  we  talk  of  leaving  next 
week  for  Lucerne,  en  route  for  Paris.  Here  he  comes 
to  ask  me  to  take  a  spin  in  his  auto  car.  As  Margaret 
and  Z.  are  both  up  on  the  hillside  with  their  suitors 
(I  have  given  up  all  attempts  to  chaperon  them),  I 
shall  have  to  look  up  Mrs.  Coxe  and  make  her  go  with 
me.  She  hates  automobiles,  poor  soul ! — says  they 
take  away  her  breath  and  make  her  heart  thump,  but 
she  will  have  to  go  all  the  same.  I  shouldn't  in  the 

304 


ANGELA'S    LETTER 


least  object  to  going  with  Dr.  A.  alone,  but  he  would 
be  scandalized  at  the  mere  mention  of  such  a  reckless 
proceeding,  so  Mrs.  Coxe  must  be  sacrificed  to  the 
proprieties. 

I  wish  you  knew  Dr.  A.  He  is  a  perfect  dear.  I 
am  sure  that  you  would  like  him. 

This  is  the  longest  letter  that  I  have  ever  written, 
but  then  there  was  so  much  to  tell  you,  and  as  Mar- 
garet seems  to  have  forgotten  how  to  write,  some  one 
must  do  it  for  the  party.  Hoping  to  see  you  and  papa 
in  Paris  or  London,  believe  me 

Your  affectionate  daughter, 
ANGELA. 

THE  END 


305 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  676  662     o 


